“You know this changes nothing between us?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” I agreed.
“As long as you’re aware.” He gestured to the hidden panel. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 5
The escape tunnel was narrow, musty, and pitch-black. Another tiny space. I drew in a breath, grateful at least that I could stand upright here. I tried to ignore the fact that getting through this tunnel was going to take far longer than crawling to the grate under the laundry.
Latching the door firmly behind us necessitated a lot of awkward elbows and knees. I pulled until I heard the click, and I brushed my hand over the smooth surface of the interior. The door wasn’t meant to open from this side, in case an intruder somehow found their way in. Going forward was our only choice. Celeno’s breath puffed short and shallow against my face.
“Assuming we get out of the palace,” he said, skepticism heavy in his voice, “I suppose you have a plan for what happens next?”
I sidled past him with both hands brushing the walls. “We meet up with someone who can help us.”
Hopefully.
“And you won’t tell me who it is?”
“Not until I need to,” I said.
“I take it I won’t be thrilled by our benefactor’s identity?”
“I doubt it.” I took a few steps forward. “Come on.”
We picked our way through the darkness, our steps short and shuffling. I nearly fell down the first set of stairs, my foot slipping right over the lip of the top step. They were rounded and uneven, and we hugged the wall as we inched down them.
“Should have brought a light,” Celeno said.
“I’ll remember one next time.”
He huffed, unamused.
The stairs flattened out into a low-hanging corridor, the ceiling just brushing the top of my hair. Slightly stooped, ignoring the knot of dread threatening to unravel in the pit of my stomach, I continued on. We passed lumpy adobe walls that had been erected at the backs of rooms to create the passageway. One original wall even had tiles still laid into it; my fingers slipped over the mosaic pattern.
Our path led us mostly downward, out of the high reaches of the royal apartments. Despite this, I couldn’t help but notice Celeno’s breath growing faster and more ragged the farther we went.
“Do you have any water?” he asked as we stepped over a threshold where the wall outside the corridor used to extend.
“Not on me. There will be some once we get out.”
His breathing remained heavy and labored. A few minutes later I was just wondering if we should stop and rest, when despite my careful shuffle, I walked directly into a wall. I bounced backward into Celeno, who staggered. We landed in a pile on the floor.
“Ow,” he said.
“Sorry.” I rubbed my forehead and crawled off him, reaching forward blindly. My fingers brushed another high threshold, as well as a low ceiling, leaving a gap perhaps three feet high.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“It’s just a small opening. I forgot it was here—there must be piping up above.” I reached through the opening, expecting to feel the space open up again on the far side. It didn’t. I frowned. “It goes a long way.”
“Can we walk?”
“I think we’ll have to crawl.” Taking a breath, I stepped up onto the lip, my head thrust forward. He clambered up behind me—I moved forward to make room.
It was less of a crawl and more of a scoot, crouched with my knees at my stomach. I shuffled two, three steps, before reaching forward to find what must be the other side. My fingers slid only against adobe wall. I froze in my tracks—Celeno bumped into me from behind, unaware I’d stopped. The air was so close in here, so stale and old. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath quickening. Heat flared in my blood, a wash of panic sweeping over me at the unexpectedly tiny space. I pressed my palms to the walls, my arms shaking.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Unable to answer, I shook my head—which of course he couldn’t see.
“Gemma?”
I cracked my lips and sucked in a breath. I shuffled one foot forward. “Nothing,” I rasped. “Come on.”
It was another five steps before the floor and ceiling evened out again. Clutching the opening, I set one foot down and stood on shaking legs. My stomach bubbled, sour.
I heard Celeno stand behind me. After a moment, his fingertips touched my elbow.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said. I took a few steps, light-headed. “Come on. I think we’re getting close.”
I knew we were nearing the end of the tunnel when the floor went from wood and adobe to stone pavers. We were inside the exterior walls now, somewhere in the barrier that circled the moon gardens. The air got colder step by step, and the absolute darkness lightened to a washed-out gloom. A grated vent opened up next to our heads, letting in some feeble moonlight and a few wayward snowflakes. We passed another vent, and then a third—this one with the grate rusted out of it, the opening partially covered by leafless climbing vines. The strong stench of urine filled the air.
“Urrgh,” Celeno said. “Guano.”
I looked down at the glistening floor, and then up at the ceiling, barely a foot above our heads. In the dim light, I could just make out the shape of dozens and dozens of furry little bodies all packed tightly together. Bats.
“Good winter roost,” I said.
“Let’s hope they’re nice and cozy.”
I refrained from expounding on how they weren’t likely to rouse from winter torpor, picking my way forward over the soiled floor. The tunnel began to slope downward slightly. We had to be nearing the end now. I walked with my hand outstretched. Finally, just when I was wondering how much more there could possibly be, my fingers touched wood. I let out a breath of relief.
“We’re here,” I said. I reached for the handle—another latch that could only open from one side. I lifted the chilly metal and pushed.
The door didn’t budge.
I blinked in the darkness, and then leaned on my palm. Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong?” Celeno whispered.
“It’s stuck,” I said. I put my shoulder against the door and shoved it. It didn’t move.
“Let me,” he said. I flattened myself against the wall as he edged past me, his back brushing my chest. He set his shoulder against the wood and rammed it, once, twice. A sprinkle of dust fell from the ceiling.
“Is it iced over?” he wondered aloud, rattling the handle.
“It feels more like there’s something in front of it,” I said, sliding my fingers along the crack. “But that doesn’t make sense—it’s behind that hedge of willows. There’s no reason to put anything here.”
“Let’s try it together.”
With him holding the latch open, we both thrust our shoulders against the wood, our feet straining on the stone floor. The door didn’t even wiggle. We tried pulling inward, to no avail. We searched for a bar or second lock, something that was inexplicably holding the door in place. Nothing.
We stood back, staring in silent consternation.
“Good thing we’re not trying to outrun an assassin,” Celeno said sardonically. “What do we do now?”
In the distance, a horn call shattered the night.
My heart jumped to my throat, and we locked eyes. It blasted four times and then repeated the pattern—an alarm call.
“Moon and stars,” Celeno said. “How did they find out so quickly?”
A jumble of ideas jumped to my head—the guard from the antechamber had come back to check the bedroom, the laundress had asked about me, Shaula had noticed the letter and key missing from the drawer, the physician had come back to check on the king. It didn’t matter, though—there was no mistaking the alarm. I grasped the handle and leaned on the door with all my might.
“It’s no good, Gemma,” he said. “They’ll know this is the only place we can be. They’re probably coming d
own from the bedroom entrance right now.”
“No.” I released my grip on the handle, my fingers stinging. “No. I’m not going to just sit and wait for them to scoop us up.” I’d go right back to the Retreat, he’d go right back to his microcosm of medicine and religious theorizing. Outside, the repeating horn blasts were joined by a ringing bell. I wiped my nose, my eyes prickling from the stress, and turned back up the tunnel. “Come on.”
“Where are you going? Even if the guards aren’t already in the tunnel, you can’t get back in the palace that way.”
“We’re not going back into the palace. We’re getting out of here.”
“How?” The word bounced as he picked up speed, hurrying to catch up with me. I ran back up the incline, my fingers brushing the walls, until my boots squelched on the floor. I looked up at the broken grate just above our heads.
Celeno groaned between breaths. “No, Gemma, seriously now . . .”
“I’ll give you a boost,” I said, lowering to one knee. “Then you help pull me out.”
“It’s barely wider than my shoulders! And what about them?” He pointed up at the huddled mass of bats clinging to the ceiling.
“Even if they did wake up, what are they going to do to you?” I prompted. “They’re insectivores, and tiny, and harmless.” I patted my bent leg. “Come on, hurry.”
He groaned again, but he set his boot, slimy with bat droppings, on my thigh. He hoisted himself toward the window.
“There’re branches in the way,” he said.
“Move them,” I said as patiently as I could muster.
He tugged on a few of the vines, clearing out the grate opening. I heard a rustle from up above, but with Celeno blocking the light, I couldn’t tell if we were disturbing the bats into flight.
He had his head and one shoulder out of the grate when he suddenly said, “Wait—shouldn’t I be helping you out?”
I pushed up on his foot, levering him farther out of the grate. I heard the rattle of frozen vines as he clutched at them to keep from falling headfirst. He eased his waist out, and then his knees, using the lip of the grate to brace himself before pulling his boots out. He dropped out of sight.
I panted, looking up at the grate. Suddenly, without the noise of his boots scraping the adobe walls, I registered another sound echoing through the tunnel—the distant thump of boots, charging down from the palace.
I reached up to the grate. “Celeno,” I called. “Give me your hand.”
The leafless vines shook. “I can’t reach the hole,” he said. “The ground is a few inches lower out here.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. A shout accompanied the oncoming boots.
“Gemma?” he called.
I backed up as much as the narrow tunnel would allow, pressing against the wall. Then, with only one good step to build momentum, I jumped for the grate, my arms straining to clutch the rounded lip.
Huffing, I eased my head through the hole. Celeno stood below, his arms upstretched, fingers a half a foot below me. I kicked at the wall with my boots—we had surely left streaks of guano leading up to our escape route, but it couldn’t be helped now. Gritting my teeth, I managed to lever myself forward enough to balance my stomach on the lip. I freed one of my arms and reached down to grasp his.
“I’ll catch you,” he said.
I wasn’t worried about him catching me—I was worried about us both crashing to the rocks below. The wall was on a little peninsula of stone, which sloped away gently at first and then dramatically, rolling toward the canyon rim. A bad slip would send us both tumbling over the edge.
He pulled, and I wiggled until my waist was free. Was I imagining the loud slap of boots on the ground? Expecting a hand around my ankle at any moment, I kicked again, and finally I shifted forward, sliding down toward him. He spread his stance wide in the gravel, throwing his arms around me before I could land face-first. Nothing about it was graceful or controlled, but at least we hadn’t sailed into the canyon. Yet.
Wheezing on the winter air, we straightened ourselves.
“Okay?” he gasped.
“Yes. You?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Come on, we have to get to the Stone Tree.”
He crouched low and hurried along the wall after me. We were going to have to circle around the end of the tunnel to get to the track that would take us to the Stone Tree—but at least the guards inside wouldn’t be able to get the door open. I could hear their footsteps, louder than I expected.
No, wait. It wasn’t footsteps at all. What I’d taken for the sound of running soldiers now sounded more like a solid object repeatedly hitting wood. We were almost at the corner of the tunnel’s end, and over the chip chip I was hearing came a murmuring of voices.
“Gemma,” Celeno whispered with an edge of alarm.
Frantically I waved to the bank of willow scrub that normally hid the door from view. We slipped through to the other side. Shielded by the branches and the cover of night, we crept around the corner.
A group of five soldiers were at the tunnel’s terminus. Four of them had their crossbows pointed at the door. The fifth was swinging a hatchet to break apart the door.
No—to break apart the wooden boards covering the door.
Silently I beckoned to Celeno, and we slunk past the scene, holding our breaths. When we’d put enough distance between us, we broke into a run.
We wound among the junipers and scrub oak along the canyon rim, scrambling through patches of scree. Horns were still blaring behind us. I prayed we wouldn’t hear the sound of horses cantering or dogs barking—both signs the guards were starting to spread outward from the palace.
Celeno was breathing heavily again and soon slowed to a brisk walk. I dropped back to keep pace with him.
“They boarded up the exit,” he said, panting. “Why?”
I glanced sideways at him. His brow was furrowed in the sliver of moonlight.
“I think it was to keep you in,” I said.
His eyebrows knitted more, but he didn’t say anything.
We kept away from the tracks leading into the city, picking our way along the rim, winding among the windswept juniper and sage that grew amid the snowy rocks. We darted cautiously across roads that wound down to the hobs in the cliffs below. The repeated horn blasts from the palace grew distant, and thankfully no alarm was raised in the city as we crept along the outskirts.
Finally, the little rise came into view, capped with a jagged column of stone. Alcoro’s scientists had debated for generations about the process behind the stands of stone trees that were scattered through the arid Ferinno Desert to the west of us. Many posed different theories of how the wood had slowly become stone, while some argued that they had never been trees at all. I’d once attended a debate that had devolved into a shouting match and ended with one geologist pelting the other with fragments of the trees.
I didn’t have an answer myself, and right now, all that mattered was getting to the only Stone Tree along the canyon rim. It was one of the biggest in the country, wide enough for five people to circle it with arms linked. I squinted at its base. Silhouetted against the sky was a person standing beside three stamping mules.
As soon as we were in range, my mother waved to us to hurry. We were hardly dawdling, but Celeno was still wheezing, his toes catching on the rocky ground. I urged him up the hill, nearly dragging him the last few yards to the foot of the towering, rock-solid trunk.
“Come on, quick now,” my mother said. “I’d hoped they wouldn’t raise the alarm this fast.”
Celeno clutched his sides and squinted through the darkness, trying to make out her face. “Who are you?”
“We can do introductions later,” she said. “You take the sorrel, and Gemma, you take the bay.” She climbed onto Checkerspot, his back loaded with bulging saddlebags. Celeno looked like he wanted to challenge her, but I waved him toward the waiting mules. Irritated, he shut his mouth and climbed into the saddle. I followe
d suit, and soon we were both urging our mounts into a hasty trot after Checkerspot.
We rode for hours, splashing through creeks when we came to them, sometimes veering down washes only to double back. When we’d finally jumbled our path to my mother’s satisfaction, she headed away from the canyon rim, leading us across the sage flats. In the distance, the Stellarange Mountains loomed crisp and indomitable, their jagged peaks blacking out the stars.
The shelter my mother and I had planned to reach for the night was tucked in the first foothills of the range, off a winding herders’ track. We reached it an hour or so after midnight, and we dismounted our mules to lead them up the rocky incline to the door. It was a tiny hunting cabin, cloaked in snowdrifts. Leafless aspens stuck up around it like wiry hairs, and the hints of a little creek peeked through the snow, barely more than puddles of ice.
I watched Celeno slide unsteadily from his mount’s back, his legs wobbling when he touched the ground. I glanced over my shoulder at the snow behind us, cast into dim shadow by the half moon.
“We’re leaving a trail,” I said.
My mother looked back, too. “Can’t be helped,” she said. “My hope is that nobody has any reason to think we’ll come this way.”
There was no stable, only a little hitching post under a slanted roof. Once we’d seen to the mules, we collected the parcels from their backs and headed inside. Celeno hesitated on the doorstep, looking back out the way we had come. My mother noticed his pause as she lit the field lantern with a fire capsule.
“Thinking of backtracking, my king?” she asked, turning up the wick. “The mules have come a long way. I doubt you’d get farther than the caprocks.”
He jerked around and closed the door behind him. “You mistake me—I’m merely pondering the somewhat ill-planned nature of this journey.” The single room was tiny, and he stood in the middle of it, fists on his hips. He stared hard at her face, and then mine, and then hers again.
“So when will I have the courtesy of knowing who has orchestrated my kidnapping?” he asked.
“Your wife did,” she said mildly, taking out a sack of corn biscuits. “Beyond springing her from the Retreat, I have mostly been her assistant.”
Creatures of Light, Book 3 Page 9
