Belén grabs a few more torches from the crate, we tighten the waist straps of our packs, and together we turn our backs on the entrance and follow Mara into the belly of the earth.
PART III
27
AFTER being on the open road for so long, it feels deeply wrong to be closed in, to see only as far as the torch’s meager splash of light will allow. We will be in these tunnels for days, according to Waterfall. But we can only see as far as the next few steps.
We walk in silence, ears pricked to detect what our eyes cannot see. So far there is only the scuffing of our feet against fallen gravel, our heavy breathing, and distantly, an echoing plink-plink of water. I dread the moment I hear anything else.
These tunnels were not created for comfort. Their sole purpose, at least at first, was to penetrate the mountains as quickly and deeply as possible in search of the zafira. So our path twists and curves to take advantage of natural caverns and fissures. The floor is rough, and we step carefully, wary of a twisted ankle. When the tunnels narrows to a crevice, we remove our packs to squeeze through sideways, one by one. Even the packs don’t fit—we are forced to unload them, hand the larger items through, and repack them on the other side.
I’m one of the last to go, and I squeeze through, back and br**sts scraping rock, worrying what will happen if we encounter a place too tight to get through.
When I reach the other side, I find Mara crouched over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. I start toward her, thinking to offer comfort, but Belén gets there first. He grabs her hand and pulls her against him, wraps his arms around her, and whispers something.
I back away, feeling like an intruder.
Twice we encounter branched corridors that appear as gaping black holes to the left. We stop so Waterfall can study them. Runes, like the ones we saw in the Temple of Morning, are carved into the wall beside them. Both times, Waterfall makes the decision to pass by.
It’s impossible to mark the time here. I’ve no idea how long we’ve traveled or how far we’ve come when I consider calling a halt for the day. Maybe it’s too early. And we have a lot of ground to make up after being stuck in the storm. But my legs tremble and my lower back aches from the weight of my pack.
It is Belén who decides for me. He stumbles, ramming his shoulder into an outcropping. He doesn’t cry out, but I’ve so rarely seen Belén be clumsy that it stops me cold. Thinking of the night he fell asleep on watch, I give the order. “Let’s camp.”
“Oh, thank God,” Mara says.
We drop our packs and plop to the ground. Mara starts pulling cooking utensils out of her pack, but I put a hand on her forearm. “No need, Mara. We can eat cold food tonight. Just rest.”
“Please, Elisa? I need to . . . do something.”
“Oh. I see. In that case, I would love some tea.”
She smiles gratefully.
Red drags a toppled wood beam toward the center of our tight camp. She and Mara attack it with ax and handsaw. It falls apart a little too easily. They get a fire going, and the light is so much brighter than that of a mere torch that we all breathe a collective sigh of relief.
We don’t need a fire for warmth—though the tunnel is chilly, it is considerably warmer than the outside wintry air—but I decide that so long as we can find wood, we should have a fire every night. Just to force a little normalcy on this strange journey.
Hector settles beside me. “Only two approaches to guard,” he says, pulling a whetstone and oilcloth from his pack. “We’ll only need one person on watch at a time.” He starts to whisk the dagger against the whetstone, and I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes to absorb the familiar sound. For the rest of my life, however long that might be, hearing blades being sharpened will remind me of Hector and Belén.
“No watch tonight,” I tell him. “I know it’s risky, but we’re desperate for rest. I need everyone sharp.”
“We’re just trading one risk for another,” he says. “But in this case, I think it’s a good trade.”
Red squeals, and we both jump in our seats. Hector is on his feet in an instant, with me not far behind. Her form is barely visible in the shadowy blackness just outside the range of our firelight. She crouches down, staring at something.
“Skinny Girl?” Belén says. “What is it? Are you all right?”
She turns to glare at him. “My name is Red Sparkle Stone.”
“Of course. Apologies.”
She picks up something off the ground. “I found this. It crawled across my food. I stomped it. At first it was glowing, but not anymore.”
She hands it to Belén, who nearly drops it. He holds it away from himself, as if it might bite him. It’s the size of my fist. Even in the gloom I can make out segmented legs. Lots of them.
“A deathstalker,” Hector says. “Larger relative of the common cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Their sting is painful and mildly poisonous but not usually serious. The problem is when they swarm. Multiple stings can be lethal.”
“Ugh,” I say.
“Yes. I agree they are ugh,” Storm says.
“Let’s hope we never see more than one at a time,” I say.
“I’m going to have nightmares,” Mara says.
“Too bad we don’t have a small cage,” Hector says, and we all look at him in puzzlement. “We could trap them. Use them for light.”
Warm affection wells up inside me, and I feel a silly grin spread across my face.
“What?” he says.
“It’s just . . . I like how practical you are. Willing to use any tool at your disposal.”
He studies me a moment. “I’m like you,” he says.
We’re still staring at each other when Belén clears his throat. “I suggest we keep our packs closed and our bedrolls tied tight whenever they’re not in use.”
The thought of slipping into my bedroll and finding a deathstalker by accident gives me a shiver. “Agreed.”
“My cousin got stung by a deathstalker,” Waterfall says as she flips out her bedroll. As she slips inside, she adds, “He died.” She closes her eyes to sleep.
28
THE next day—or maybe only a short time later—I wake to utter darkness. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, and I have a moment’s breathless panic, but then a spark sears the blackness, followed by a softer, wider light that fills our campsite.
Mara is hunched over the fire, blowing onto the small flame. Her tinderbox is on the ground beside her.
“I’m so glad you can do that in the dark,” I say with a yawn as the others stir around me.
“Me too,” she says. “But we’re going to have this problem a lot. The wood is too dry to bank properly. Whoever stands watch will have to keep an eye on it. We should always have wood within arm’s length, just in case.”
I nod agreement. “If necessary, Storm and I can make our Godstones glow, though we couldn’t keep it up indefinitely.”
But I warm myself with the thought. So long as I have the Godstone, I have light.
After a quick meal of smoked horse meat and pine-needle tea, we shoulder our packs and set off. Our path grows steep, so steep that at times we skid our way downward into the belly of the mountain. It seems so wrong that we should go down when every instinct in me screams to go up, toward light and air. Waterfall insists we’re on the right path.
When the tunnel curves to the right and then levels off, I’m delighted to give my calves and shins a break.
A crack sounds, then an echoing clatter that ends in a splintering crash.
“My sister!” Storm cries out, rushing forward.
I can’t see over everyone’s heads, so I push forward, elbowing them out of my way.
Waterfall is crumpled to the ground. Her left leg has broken through the floor. The resulting hole is jagged with splintered wood. She pulls on the leg, but it’s clearly stuck. “A false floor,” she says, her eyes wide with pain. “You should all step away.”
Now that she mentions it, my steps sound hollow, and the ground beneath me has a slight give. We edge backward, testing each step before putting full weight on it. “We’ll get you out of there,” I assure her. But I don’t stop backing away until my heel meets with a slight lip, followed by solid ground. We were walking across ancient planks of wood, I realize with a pounding heart. Disguised by centuries of dust and gravel.
“I’m bleeding,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can feel it going down my leg.”
Oh, God. I hope she hasn’t nicked an artery.
“I’ll throw you a rope,” Hector says. “Try to get both arms through the loop. Once we have you secured, we’ll send someone to start widening that hole.”
He pulls the large coil from his pack and starts to loop and knot, his fingers sure. I put a hand on his forearm. “We can’t lose her,” I say quietly. “She’s our only way through this place.”
His return gaze is solemn. “I know.”
He finishes his knot. “Ready?”
She nods, and he tosses it her way. She grabs the end, manages to get one arm through . . . when the floor cracks again and she sinks deeper. She grunts in pain.
“We’ve got a good hold on the rope,” Hector says, and I see that it’s true. Behind him, Belén and Mara are holding tight to it; Belén has it wrapped twice around his forearm. “We won’t let you fall.”
Slowly, gingerly, she wriggles her other arm through so that the rope curves under her armpits and around her back. “I’m secure,” she calls back.
“Now we send someone to break her out of that hole,” Hector says to me, “tied to Belén’s rope. I’d go, but I think the strongest of us should stay behind as anchors.”
I nod, and even as my gut screams no, my mouth says, “I’ll go.”
“I should go,” Red says. “I’m the littlest.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I know she’s right. She’s the safest choice. “All right. Thank you, Red.”
“I’ll hold the torch,” Storm says.
Hector makes sure Mara and Belén have a tight grip on the rope holding Waterfall, and then he rummages through Belén’s pack and pulls out a second rope. He wraps it between Red’s legs and around her waist, then ties it off with a thick sailor’s knot. “Go carefully,” he says, his voice dark. “Test each step before putting your full weight on it. When you get there, don’t try to dislodge Waterfall’s leg. Just try to open up the hole so she can move it herself.” He hands her Belén’s ax.
She nods up at him, swallowing hard, then she screws her face into a mask of determination and sets off. Hector and I grip her rope tight, bracing ourselves in wide stances.
My heart pounds in my throat as I watch her tiny form work its way across the planking, testing each step and letting the floor gradually assume her weight. When she reaches Waterfall, she gets on her belly and splays herself, spreading her weight out as much as possible.
“Smart girl,” I mutter.
She attacks the wood around the hole with the ax. Lying on her belly gives her little range of motion for the task, but the wood is weak and dry, and it cracks easily and falls away. I count one-two-three-four before hearing a faint crash as the pieces splinter on impact far, far below.
“Big chunk here I think I can get rid of,” Red says. “Hold tight to that rope.” Her high little-girl voice rings with authority, and Waterfall nods wordlessly and grabs the rope with both hands.
Red slams the floor with the ax. Something breaks away, Waterfall sinks, the rope goes taut. Mara and Belén strain to hold it in place. “Can you move your leg?” Red asks.
Waterfall closes her eyes. Sweat beads on her now-bloodless forehead as she yells through gritted teeth and pulls her leg away from the jagged wood.
“Got it,” she says breathlessly. “But it’s bleeding badly.” She lets go of the rope to grasp at the planking. Red backs up a little to give her some space, but she stretches out a hand to help. Waterfall reaches for it.
The floor collapses, and Waterfall drops away while Red scrambles backward. Mara and Belén are pulled forward a few steps, but they find their footing and hold fast.
“Don’t let go!” I yell.
As soon as Red reaches solid ground, Hector and I drop her rope and rush to Waterfall’s. Slowly, muscles straining, we pull it back.
Storm has moved to the edge of the false floor. “Can you hear me?” he says. “Are you all right?”
“This rope . . .” comes the labored voice. “Can’t breathe . . .”
A white hand peeks over the edge, then a forearm. Storm steps out to help her.
“Storm, no!” I call out, but he ignores me. He lowers himself to his knees and bends toward the hole. The floor creaks.
He grabs his sister’s wrist, then her arm. The rest of us keep hauling on the rope. And suddenly, Storm has her. The floor cracks. He leaps backward toward solid ground. His heels slip out from under him, and he lands flat on his back with his sister atop him.
Waterfall rolls away. I drop the rope and run forward. “Storm? Are you all right?” I fall to my knees beside him.
His mouth opens and closes, like a beached fish. He blinks. I check him for injury but see nothing. What if it’s his back? What if he can’t move?
Air rushes back into him, and he groans like a dying animal. “My back!” he says. “My head! I don’t like pain.”
I exhale relief, that he is well enough to complain so.