by E. J. Godwin
The hours dragged. The spire-like feature Caleb had descried slowly resolved into a gaunt, narrow pine, standing alone or else towering above the others, like the ragged survivor of an ancient forest. Just as he made up his mind to take Soren’s place the old Raén spat a curse, ordered Caleb to take his place at the scull, and retrieving the axe from the baggage, cut the bonds at the end of the first log on the starboard side.
“What in Ada are you doing?” Caleb shouted.
“Watch, and you will know!” Soren answered.
Caleb obeyed, sitting down again as Soren began splitting one end of the log into long, crude planks. The heave of the little vessel made this maddeningly difficult, but eventually he produced several planks, one especially long and thick. He released what was left of the log into the water, retied the ropes, and at his gesture Warren vacated the spot at the center.
At last Caleb jumped to a guess. Leaving Rennor to navigate the raft, he helped Soren drive the largest of the planks down between the logs, wedging it in place with scraps of splintered wood. Soon they had a rough frame for a sail, two sets of rather shaky yardarms extending to either side. There was no canvas, nor any leather large enough to make a sail, but Soren used a thick blanket—Rennor’s—and secured it to the frame.
The clumsy device creaked and wobbled with the force of the wind. Soren was forced to guide the sail with ropes tied at the yardarms, lest the whole contraption break free or tilt at a useless angle. To Caleb it looked twice as much effort as the scull, but their speed improved noticeably—though anyone foolish enough to sit near the front soon got soaked from the chop and splash of the restless waves.
After an hour or so the island sharpened, and the shore behind faded to a hazy blue line. But the sun arced westward as it ever did, and Soren cast up anxious glances, shading his eyes.
♦
By the time the western sky had colored, the tall pines of Graxmoar loomed above them.
The shore was laden with enough rocks and tall boulders to thwart any landing. Soren gathered the rope he had been holding, the last remaining to them, and tied the raft to the nearest tree. But the waves battered the raft against the rocks, and it took a deal of effort to get the baggage onto dry land without losing everything in the lake. Caleb felt as if the island were heaving up and down beneath his feet.
All was safe at last, and they climbed to drier and less treacherous ground beneath the first trees. Soren perched himself on a tall boulder fringed with twisted pine roots and studied the dense woods rising above. They assumed their goal was at the center—which, judging by the size of the island as seen from afar, was only two or three miles away. A few hours of light remained. So after they divided the baggage amongst the adults, Soren struggled through the tangled branches, the others following close behind.
The thick pine growth eased at the top of the first rise, but the rugged terrain slowed their progress. Soren was often forced to wait for the others, especially Rennor. Caleb held a steady enough pace, and the unburdened Warren stepped lightly over the stones and fallen limbs, eager for adventure as always. But Rennor sweated and puffed in the cool, windy air. After two long waits spent grumbling at the top of a ridge, Soren accepted the inevitable and slowed his pace.
As they drew closer to the center of the island the lone pine at its top increased in size and clarity, a massive tree dwarfing all the others. It had suffered from years of wind and storm, and it looked barely alive, its ruined crown stark against the evening light. Beyond this they saw nothing unusual, no hint of where the Broken Lor’yentré might be found, only hills, trees, and rocks, and an occasional glimpse of the lake far off in the haze. Perhaps the ragged tree marked their destination somehow. But it seemed too easy, and Caleb feared they had missed some clue, that their goal lay in an unexpected part of the island.
He glanced behind him. “It’s ahead,” Rennor said between breaths. “I feel it.”
Caleb frowned. Though the gift of laroné was not a casual topic among the Adaiani, it was his understanding that no foreigner was ever known to possess it. Soren merely led the way without comment, sure of his direction. But Caleb could not shake the notion that everything that had happened so far—Warren’s strange behavior, Gur’alyreiv, the stone creature, even Rennor—were all connected somehow.
Ridge after ridge they climbed. At last they halted at the foot of the very last hill, its rocky summit bereft of any growth save for the lonely sentinel at its top. Caleb scanned the area for a marker of some kind, but in vain.
“Do you think we’ve come to the right place?” he asked. Soren only nodded.
“There must be an underground chamber nearby, and an entrance,” Rennor said.
Soren glowered. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”
Caleb hated to side with Rennor, but this was too important. “Orand did say that the broken Lor’yentré lies within Graxmoar, Soren.”
The old Raén stared at him as if he had lost his mind, then began scouting about the base of the hill, shaking his head.
Rennor followed, searching intently; Caleb took the opposite direction, Warren trailing. He saw only stones and grass, and fallen trees stripped and bleached by the sun and snow, their branches angling at the sky like bony fingers. To Caleb the place held a faint air of tragedy, and he bent his gaze to the ground as if by a spell or an unseen weight.
He spotted a half-buried branch a little whiter than the others. At first he gave it no more than a passing thought. Yet he kept glancing back at it, and with a puff of agitation reached down and pried it from the tangled grass.
It was a bone. It was brittle and old, ancient even, and about as long as his forearm. He turned it over, puzzled. Since he had first set foot on Graxmoar he had seen no animals larger than a squirrel.
His eyes flew wide, and he dropped it with a shout.
Soren ran up. “Well, man from the sky? What is it?”
Caleb, silently cursing himself for his weakness, picked up the bone and handed it to Soren. The old Raén studied it for a moment, then laid it back down and started digging around the area with a large stick.
He stood. A broken object lay in his hands: part of a skull, the jawbone gone, its sockets and nostrils packed with dirt.
“Someone’s been here before us,” Caleb said.
Soren nodded. “Raén.”
Rennor had joined them, his attention fixed upon the skull. “How can you be sure?”
“Who else could it be?” Soren answered. “In any case, perhaps we should interpret his remains as a warning.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” said Caleb.
Soren glared at him. “Or let hidden motives cloud our judgment.”
The accusation brought Caleb’s blood to full boil, but he kept it under control. With the first step towards healing Warren close at hand, he was not about to risk a confrontation.
The Master Raén gently laid the skull and the other bone back into the hole he had dug, and smoothed the ground over again. They resumed their search for an entrance.
Caleb pointed up the slope. “That large rock has marks on it—writing, I think.”
Partway up the hill stood a narrow boulder surrounded by tall grass and shrub, flat on one side like a neglected tombstone. They began climbing at once. By the time they reached the stone they could see letters or symbols set in neat rows, but so weathered as to be indecipherable. Rennor, always last, halted a few steps away, his gaze riveted. Soren, the closest, gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword. There was little doubt of what they had found at last.
Warren traced his finger over the faded letters; Caleb shivered and pulled him away. The reddening sun shone on their backs, tall grasses and verdant pines swayed in the wind, yet they seemed weak, insubstantial compared to the threat below. One glance at the Master Raén told Caleb he was not the only one to sense this. This was no Gur’alyreiv. It was something much older, dormant perhaps, yet ready to spring to life if disturbed b
y some blundering fool.
Soren broke from his trance. “Stay put while I look around,” he said, and started poking at the grass nearby with the toe of his boot.
As soon as he reached the uphill side of the stone he flung up his arms and fell from sight, crying out. Caleb and Rennor stared at each other for an instant, then sprang forward, Warren scrambling after.
They halted on either side of the stone. A wide, ragged hole gaped below. Sod hung over the edges; dirt and debris trickled down into inky darkness.
Caleb bent down to listen. “Soren! Are you all right?” His voice fell dead, swallowed up.
There was no answer, no sound other than an occasional faint scrape, and the wind whispering around the stone. Then Caleb remembered his flashlight. After strewing the contents of his pack onto the ground, he brought it out and pointed its beam down the hole.
The dirty head and face of the Master Raén of Ada appeared. He struggled and fought his way back to daylight. “Put your cursed Earth magic away. You’re blinding me!”
Caleb angled the beam to one side. “In the name of Hendra, why didn’t you answer me?”
“Because I’m not very good at speaking with a mouth full of dirt.”
“Oh. Hold on, I’ll get some rope.”
“We don’t have any left, remember?” came the muffled voice. “In any case, it’s obvious we have to climb down here.”
“This is it?”
A dim stare shot out of the hole. “What great knowledge you wield. Yes, this is it. So, instead of my having to climb out of this filthy hole twice, you sluggards get everything together and follow. Below the passage widens and turns to stone.”
“Then you’re going to need my cursed Earth magic.”
Soren ignored the jibe, and ordered them to gather a bundle of short branches for torches. Caleb saw the sense in this; there was no telling how long this was going to take, and the flashlight wasn’t inexhaustible. As Rennor sorted out what few supplies they needed, Caleb used his hatchet to trim several green branches from the nearby trees. Warren collected pine bark and other kindling to augment their supply of pitch. Meanwhile Soren tried to pack the soil against the walls to keep it from falling away when they passed through.
Warren was reluctant to enter, but after Caleb went first and offered a few encouraging words, he slid down awkwardly into his father’s arms. Rennor followed, bringing only one small pack. They left the rest of their supplies concealed in the branches of a nearby tree.
The tunnel was moist and rank, and Caleb shook himself from visions of worms squeezing out of the soil near his face. Apparently the entrance had been open once, but centuries of wind and weather had covered it up. The resulting cap had given way under Soren’s weight. As he had promised, the tunnel widened and plunged into bedrock, but at a precipitous angle. Caleb’s main difficulty was pointing the flashlight in the right direction, for he had to stop now and then to prevent Warren from falling—or worse yet, from slamming into him and plunging them all headlong into the pit below. Rennor, as usual, struggled to keep up, his labored breathing and the scuff of his movements the only evidence of his presence behind in the darkness.
Though they had yet to descend thirty feet, the small patch of darkening sky had already disappeared around the first twist in the passage. Now even Caleb was forced to stop and rest. Soren waited impatiently, then widened his eyes as Caleb handed down the flashlight.
“I’m having enough trouble as it is,” Caleb protested before Soren could speak. “And if you don’t take the light, fool, your next step might be a long one.”
Soren hesitated, then with a grunt whisked the flashlight out of his hand. Yet before he turned to lead the way again he directed the beam up past the others at Rennor’s sweat-soaked face. The man was giving everything he had to keep up, and to avoid a fatal slip on the nearly vertical walls of the passage. Soren chuckled quietly as he resumed the descent.
Down into Graxmoar they burrowed, every step an exercise in caution. Eventually the flashlight revealed a smooth floor where the tunnel leveled off at once. Soren leaped the last few ledges, Caleb following soon after; Warren jumped half as far, landing lightly on his feet; Rennor struggled to the last ledge in the rocky wall and sank to the floor in exhaustion.
The other end of a short passage ended at a small, dust-covered door. Soren hesitated, his fingers tight around the flashlight as the beam played over the rotting planks. Warren edged closer to his father.
Caleb squatted beside Rennor. “I need you to stay with Warren while Soren and I go inside.”
The man leaned back against the damp wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Here? Why? And why now?”
“I know, I should have left him by the stone with you. But I need to find out what lies beyond that door before I expose my son to it.”
Rennor’s gaze strayed to Warren. “There’s nothing to fear. What we sense is only memories of evils done with the Second Lor’yentré ages ago.”
“Or a prescience of evils yet to come,” muttered Soren, glancing at the boy as well. “Your faith in our history and lore changes to suit your arguments. I’ve tolerated your company this far only because it hasn’t posed any real threat to our mission. But I refuse to allow anyone who hasn’t taken the Oath to step beyond that door.”
Caleb, fuming over Soren’s implied accusation about his son, surged to his feet. “What about me?” he asked. “I thought I was unworthy to be a Raén. Or have you forgotten what you said to me the other night?”
The Master Raén glared at him as Caleb pointed at the door. “I’m going in there, Soren. I need to find out whether I’m chasing a dream, or exchanging it for something far worse.” He gripped the hilt of his Fetra. “But I’m through putting up with your innuendos—especially your insinuating little glances at my boy. Either accept me as a full Raén, or finish what you started!”
For a moment Caleb thought he was going to call his bluff. Then Soren’s eyes lost their fire, and he nodded.
Caleb looked down at Rennor. “What about you?”
“What choice do I have? At least show me the courtesy of telling me when you find something.”
“Done,” said Caleb.
Warren shook his head emphatically when his father explained this arrangement. Rennor could be charming when necessary, however, and before long the boy sat nervously at his side.
Caleb grasped one of the short branches he had carried down from the surface, while Soren brought out an earthen jar of pitch Rennor had bought in Enilií. Caleb soaked a small rag and wrapped it around one end, then after some difficulty lighting it gave the torch to Rennor, leaving extra pitch and a few spare torches. At such close quarters the fresh flames almost blinded them, and they were soon coughing from the acrid smoke gathering along the low ceiling. But the shaft behind provided an adequate vent, keeping the air clear near the ground where Rennor and the boy remained seated.
Soren crept down the short passage, Caleb following. The door rose before them, its pitted surface and splitting joints covered in dust and old cobwebs. Soren gripped the rusted handle, but it tore loose at the slightest tug. He stuck his fingers between door and jamb, but no matter how he tried it wouldn’t budge.
With help from Caleb it finally opened, though unexpectedly. A brittle crack, and an entire section of the door broke free, throwing splinters in all directions. Gray dust from inside rose up in a cloud. Caleb managed to stay clear, but Soren got it right in the face, and he blinked the dust out of his eyes, coughing hoarsely.
Once he recovered he pointed the flashlight into the hole. Only a short expanse of floor appeared, the rest vanishing into a stygian void. There was nothing for it. After a glance back at the others they both squeezed through, the Master Raén carefully leading the way.
20
Ancient Warning
We should be careful not so much what we wish for,
but rather what we don’t.
- from Etre Obald’aseli
&nb
sp; AT FIRST they saw nothing but a heavy layer of dust. Yet the whispering echo of their footsteps traveled all about them, and when Soren swung the beam of the flashlight, Caleb followed its flight in amazement.
They stood in a tall, roughly circular cave a few hundred feet in diameter. Giant stalactites hung from a dizzying nest of formations high above, some reaching the floor in narrow columns. Twisted masses of rock like petrified entrails formed the walls. But there was no sheen of moisture or any sign of life to be found—a dust-strewn dungeon that even nature itself had long forgotten.
Caleb gaped at the spectacle, turning slowly. Then a shout brought his heart to his mouth.
“Ykéa!”
The traditional warning cry bounded from wall to wall. “Blast you, Soren!”
“Look,” he said, pointing toward the center of the cave.
A narrow monolith stood alone in a wide space clear of stalagmites. Though a blanket of gray covered its top, its polished ebony flanks glistened with the light.
Scattered all about it lay several bizarre forms, a dozen at least, their features blurred by the dust. Caleb stepped forward for a closer inspection. They were corpses, lying like victims left to rot on an ancient battlefield. Tarnished swords were stuck between their ribs, their fleshless hands grasping the curved blades as if still trying to wrench them from hearts long withered and consumed. The ornate hilts, decayed as they were, were all too familiar.
Caleb approached the stone with the Master Raén, his fear and curiosity as one. Soren scanned the littered floor, his face pale and drawn. After threading a careful path through the bones they reached the obelisk, the glare of the flashlight reflecting off its surface.
The top was fashioned into a sculpture of some kind. Soren brushed away the dust, revealing a pair of black hands, heels touching, palms upward as if in supplication. Words were etched in the face of the stone below; dust filled the tiny crevices, offering easy contrast.
