Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles

by David L. Craddock

  The cellar was dim and dusty, like every cellar, even the ones back in the palace. Women like Helda and Martha weren’t afraid of a few cobwebs. Picking up a lantern set on a crate by the stairs, Aidan drew light from his lamp. Fire bloomed in the glass, spreading a flickering orange pool at his feet. He raised the lantern and looked around. Shelves of wine lined the stone walls.

  “How do I know which one blocks the tunnel?”

  —Use Sight again.

  Aidan swept white eyes over the room. “Ah,” he said. An outline like a doorway stood behind one of the shelves on the left.

  Sight is quite useful, he thought.

  —I think so, too.

  He set the lantern aside and wrestled the shelf out from the wall, grunting into the musty stillness. Brushing his hands on his shirt, he retrieved his light and held it out to see a set of rough, wet stairs leading down into darkness. The sweet scent of wine hung in the air, clinging to the steps and walls of the passageway.

  “Care to finally reveal exactly where we’re going, specifically?” he asked, his voice rather unsteady as he took his first step down, not expecting an answer.

  —The Duskwood, Heritage replied.

  Inside the Fisherman’s Pond, the Lordens mingled with their guests. All raved that tonight’s performance was the most amazing exhibition they had ever seen. The siblings thanked them, made small talk, shook hands, and after a while the patrons sauntered over to the bar and tables where Martha and her servers uncorked ales and wines from all across Torel.

  Seeing no sign of their friends, Christine and Garrett clomped their way up the stairs and knocked softly on their doors. Daniel burst from Aidan’s room in mid-knock, his face flushed.

  “There you are,” Garrett said with a grin. “Did you enjoy—?”

  “Have you seen Aidan?”

  Garrett’s grin melted into a scowl. “He’s not with you?”

  “No,” Daniel said slowly.

  Garrett turned to his sister. “What did you say to him?” he asked her.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she said, her face smooth.

  Garrett shoved past her down the stairs.

  “What’s with him?” Daniel asked. She gave him a sad look.

  Garrett bounded back up the stairs and into the room to join Daniel. Daniel was about to ask if he had found anything when three large men—Darinians by the size of them, though they wore clothes and hoods to cover their tattoos—entered behind him, ducking through the doorway.

  “These are some friends of mine,” Garrett said. “They believe Aidan left during our little show, and they’ve offered to help us find him.”

  Daniel rose from the bed, his face uncertain. “I don’t think we need—”

  “What you think isn’t important.”

  Daniel’s eyebrow rose, but before he could reply, Christine stepped between them.

  “You don’t need to talk to him like that.”

  “Be quiet, sister,” Garrett said. He pulled her close. “He must be here. We—”

  Daniel stepped forward and shoved the other man away. “Do not touch her like that again,” he said.

  Smiling crookedly, Garrett signaled to his three burly friends. They came at Daniel in a blur, knocking him to the ground and pounding at him with their huge fists.

  “Garrett, stop it!” Christine said. Her brother paid her no heed. His smile grew at every dull thud that came from Daniel’s body. To Christine, they sounded like a hammer whacking meat.

  She raised open palms toward the attackers. “I said—”

  A terrible pain gripped her stomach. She clutched her middle and gasped for air that would not come. The grip on her insides tightened, rending and squeezing. Tears poured from her eyes. She crumpled to the floor, still clutching her stomach as the pain increased. Her heart was beating furiously. Her vision darkened, and—

  —the pain vanished, like a too-tight belt that snapped in two and fell away. Her heartbeat slowed. She climbed to her feet slowly, pitching forward a few times before she finally stood upright, still clutching her stomach. She could still sense something inside of her, something that had been there before but had been... changed. Raising shaking hands in front of her, she readied herself to pull in light and unleash it in a torrent on the three men standing over Daniel’s limp form.

  Nothing happened. She could feel the light responding to her call, rushing toward her—then colliding like water against rock. Her eyes darted around the room in panic. She focused again, reaching within herself to heat the blood of the Touched that coursed through her veins. But she could not. Holding a fistful of air was easier.

  A rustling came from behind her. She turned and saw a hooded figure standing in the doorway. Gnarled hands reached up to lower the shroud.

  Tyrnen pursed his lips. “You were about to slaughter my servants. Surely you can understand why I would think you might be dangerous.” Another man, his face lost in the shadows of his hood, entered behind him, arms folded.

  Christine glanced over at Daniel. His chest hitched and shuddered.

  “Gather him up,” Tyrnen said to the three large men, gesturing to Daniel. “We leave immediately.” He turned back to Christine. “You will lead us to Aidan.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “What makes you think I would tell you where...?” She stopped, considering. If he was dependent upon her to find Aidan, perhaps she could buy her friend some time. She lowered her eyes to the floor and allowed her shoulders to sag.

  “Very well.”

  “Excellent. Now, where is he?”

  She peered about the room as if searching. “He goes...” She pointed. “East. The prince travels to the east.”

  Tyrnen sighed. “Are you certain?” He sounded bored.

  “Yes. He is—”

  She flew backward and slammed against the wall. Her feet dangled several inches above the ground. Invisible bonds held her tight. Tyrnen walked slowly toward her, folding his hands inside his robe.

  “You’re lying,” he whispered.

  “No,” she gasped. “I swear it! He travels east!”

  “I can feel him, Christine. Just as you can. And I know that he does not travel to the east.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I won’t—”

  She cut off in a silent gasp as the bonds began to press her into the wall. She felt as if she were caught in between two walls of solid rock that were slowly coming together. At last, the pain stopped. “South,” she panted. “South, and fast.”

  Tyrnen nodded, muttering something under his breath. Christine thought it sounded like “Using the tunnels.” He looked up at her.

  “I keep giving you opportunities, and you keep disappointing me. Sadly, the patience of the Eternal Flame only burns for so long.” His face twisted, and for a moment he appeared conflicted, his eyes darting back and forth as if watching an argument between two parties. Then his visage smoothed. “Free will is a privilege, girl. Do not lose yours.”

  The bonds disappeared. She crumpled to the floor on her hands and knees. “I won’t let you hurt Aidan,” she panted. “I will warn him, tell him that—”

  “And do you think,” Tyrnen said, “that he will believe you once he learns how big a help you have been to me?”

  She paled. “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “Oh, but he does. What do you think he’ll say when I tell him that you and your brother were paid—very, very well—to keep him busy for me until I could come for him?”

  Christine was speechless. Wringing his hands, Garrett shuffled to the old man’s side. Tyrnen smiled as he placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder. Garrett looked adoringly at the old man. Christine was reminded of a dog who had performed some trick and knew it deserved a treat.

  “You’ve done well, Garrett,” Tyrnen said. He reached his free hand into his robes. A clinking noise sounded from his fist as he pressed his hand into Garrett’s. The room’s faint torchlight glinted off globular jewels as the young man stared at them, mesmerized.
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  Christine could not believe what she was seeing. “Traitor!”

  Garrett looked at her, confused. “I’m doing the job we were paid to do, sister.” He stuffed the jewels into his pouch and tied it closed.

  “Partly,” Tyrnen said.

  Garrett paled. “I will not fail again. Please give me another chance.”

  Tyrnen scrutinized Garrett, as if weighing the value of his life on a scale. At last he pointed to the group of large men. “Carry that one”—he flicked a hand at Daniel—“and the girl to the cellar.” He turned to Garrett. “Lead the way. No one must see us.” Garrett’s color returned as he smiled and nodded eagerly.

  One of the big men scooped up Christine and slung her over his shoulder. A calloused hand clamped over her mouth. She bit down and immediately spit. His hand tasted like rotten meat. She looked up, ready to give him her frostiest glare, and immediately looked away. His eyes were flat and dead.

  They wound their way down to the cellar. Tyrnen led the group to a wine rack pulled out from the wall. Behind it was a doorway with stairs that stank of spilled wine. He turned to Christine.

  “Make any noise, any at all, and I kill Daniel.”

  Without another word he descended the passageway into darkness.

  Chapter 22

  Riding the Darkness

  AIDAN DIDN’T HEAR THE whispers right away. He was too preoccupied feeling terrified.

  The stairs ended in a narrow path that snaked between dry, rough walls. The scent of earth was cloying. His breath fogged the air in front of him as he crept along the winding trail. One hand held a lantern that peeled away the darkness ahead; the other strangled his sword hilt.

  A strand of inky darkness appeared on the left wall. It ran ahead of him, flowing along the wall like blood through a vein. He rounded another bend and the trail ended at an entrance way. Beyond, purple light flickered, like lightning in a midnight sky. Counting to three, Aidan jumped through, brandishing lantern and sword. His arms dropped to his side as his apprehension for what might lay beyond the next bend gave way to wonder.

  He was in a great hall where the tips of stalactites and stalagmites touched to form great columns. Shrieks and the flutter of wings came from the shadows far overhead. Inky trails like the one he had followed ran along the walls and ground like creepers. They glowed faintly in the darkness. Each thread wound its way up, down, around, and over other threads and vanished into arched tunnels like the one from which he had emerged.

  This must be a waypoint.

  Sheathing Heritage, Aidan turned to trace his finger along the wall, interested in where the tunnel beneath the Fisherman’s Pond’s cellar might take him. Next to the entrance way he noticed a square carved into the wall. Inside the square were three circles connected by lines to form a triangle. A key.

  Excited, he dug Daniel’s parchment out of his pocket and examined his sign—an “X” with a squiggly line through the middle. He walked around the waypoint, walking from tunnel to tunnel. Crossing the chamber, he came to a table in the center of the hall. Tyrnen would have blanched at the organization of the surface.

  Charts, notes in a language he didn’t recognize, and supplies such as tinderboxes, parchment, quills, inkpots, bottles of water, and wrapped rations sat neatly arranged. Aidan peeled open a ration and chuckled. Chocolate bars, the ideal meal for a band of adolescents with easy access to Leastonian warehouses cargo holds. His mother would be appalled at the idea of youths wandering through the underground, swiping any goods not nailed down while devouring sweets.

  Aidan pocketed three.

  He found his mark on the far side of the waypoint, though it was slightly different than the one the sneak had scribbled down for Daniel. Eight sets of four vertical bars were carved into the wall next to the key; another line ran diagonally through each set of four bars, as if keeping count of something.

  Shrugging, he stepped through.

  The trail unwound in front of him like a ball of string. He followed it around bends, up inclines, and down rough steps. After about another hour he stepped into another waypoint. Threads of darkness unraveled, spooling out to establish links between tunnels that lined the walls from top to bottom like honeycombs. A thick net divided into small squares covered the wall like webbing. Footholds, Aidan presumed, for travelers to use to climb up to their tunnel of choice.

  Aidan felt his stomach drop as he followed his vein of darkness up, up, up to a tunnel that lay just below the layer of shadows that hid the ceiling—or dozens more tunnels, for all Aidan knew—from view. Carefully looping his arm through the lantern’s handle, he began to climb. The netting was made of coarse rope arranged in wide loops, perfect for finding footholds but a burden on soft hands. Several minutes later he crawled through his opening, sweaty and panting, his fingers red and throbbing. Climbing to his feet, he peered around the side of the chamber to study the sets of vertical bars crossed with diagonal lines etched near the symbol. Then he groaned.

  There were thirty-nine marks, one down from the forty count. He caught his breath and trudged on, following a gentle slope and walking in what felt like a circle. His thoughts wandered as the minutes wore on. After what felt like hours he entered a third waypoint even more cavernous than the last. He knuckled his back, sighing as he bones popped, and studied his trail. Again it went up the wall, even higher than before.

  Aidan ground his teeth. There’s got to be a faster way. He set the lantern down and looked around the room, thinking. Daniel had said anyone could walk through the tunnels the old-fashioned way: walking, blisters, lots of sweat. Only those who practiced dark magic could ride the tunnels, as he’d said. How exactly did one do that? Daniel had said that the Touched could use dark magic, but he hadn’t said how the Touched bit into that forbidden fruit.

  That was another thing. Even if Aidan could use dark magic, did he want to? Should he? All accounts described practitioners of dark magic as corrupt and twisted, like Dimitri Thalamahn. How did that happen? Did years spent dabbling in Midnight rot one’s soul like a piece of fruit? Or did the first dalliance invite evil to settle in?

  Faint whispers tickled his ears. What did you say? he asked the sword.

  —I didn’t say anything.

  Aidan strained his ears and froze. Whispers, lots of them, coming from all around. He couldn’t make out the words, but their low and guttural tone made him reach for his sword and move to the center of the room. Shadows danced along the wall. His heart took off at a gallop. Not just whispers, but whispers, the shadow creatures that had haunted him awake and asleep. He drew from the lantern and hurled fire at a cluster of darkness against the far wall. The flames clung to the rock, but the whispers were unfazed. There was no shriek of agony, no loss of mass.

  Because there were no whispers. These shadows were just shadows.

  Then what’s making that noise?

  An idea came to him. He set the lantern down, held Heritage tight, and blinked. Sight settled over him, painting the walls white but leaving the trails the deepest shade of midnight. He stood listening, but the words remained indecipherable. There was no magical Hearing to go along with Sight, it seemed. He blinked, returning the waypoint to its normal palette of blues and blacks, and stared up at the key that marked the next tunnel he needed to take, wondering what to do next. Just as he was about to slip his foot into the netting and start up, one voice cut through the whispers and spoke a clear, unmistakable phrase.

  —Touch and spirit me away, Lord of Midnight.

  The voice was low and hoarse, and the words were not common, nor Darinian, nor any other tongue that passed through most lips. It was the Language of Light, the ancient language the Touched used to pray to the Lady of Dawn to complete a kindling. But these words formed a prayer. To the Lord of Midnight, not the Lady of Dawn.

  A shiver ran through Aidan. Praying to Kahltan using the Lady’s beautiful language was like filtering spring water through dirt, blood, and ash. Could he do it? He didn’t even know what t
he prayer meant. Touch? Touch what?

  —The key, perhaps? Heritage suggested.

  Aidan frowned. Are you encouraging me to try this? To use dark magic? The suggestion baffled him, and left him wary. Heritage was an instrument forged using the Lady’s light. To receive such a notion from so divine an object was as startling as the Lady of Dawn and Lord of Midnight sitting down to dinner.

  Heritage didn’t respond. Hesitantly, Aidan climbed up the netting, panting by the time he pulled himself through the tunnel entrance and flopped onto his back. Weariness ebbed away, but his mounting nervousness did not. Time was growing short. He didn’t know how he knew—the sword hadn’t said as much—but he knew all the same. He could feel it, like a low rumble beneath the feet before the earth shook. Daniel had said it best back at the Hornet’s Nest. They were moving too slow. Walking and running, even his shifts, just weren’t fast enough.

  The trail of darkness fed through the key mark just inside the tunnel and continued on. Aidan raised his hand to the key, stopped just short of touching it, then let his fingers settle. The grooves of the “X” and squiggly line felt rough, like they had been carved with a knife. He took a deep breath, kindled from the lantern at his feet, spoke the prayer in the Language—Touch and spirit me away, Lord of Midnight—and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself as if anticipating a hand made from shadows and nightmares to burst from the wall and drag him into the rock.

  Nothing happened.

  He opened his eyes to squint and looked around. The light remained in him, coursing through his veins, heating his blood. Through his veins. His eyes widened as he studied the trails of darkness flowing through the wall. Like blood through veins. Light wouldn’t work. He wasn’t praying to the Lady. He was praying to Kahltan. To darkness. The whispers fluttered around him then, intoning the prayer over and over.