(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (79 page)

“Your Highness,” he said, sketching a not very convincing bow. The youngest Tolly brother was still thin as a racing dog, all length and tendon. His dark hair had been cut high above his ears in the current Syannese style and he even wore a little tuft of beard on his chin; with his short gown in golden satin and his parti-colored hose and velvet trim he looked every inch a prince of one of the more fashion-conscious southern courts. Briony thought it was strange that he could look both so much like his brother Gailon in the face and so little like him in all else—dark for fair, slim for well-muscled, foppish for stolid, as though this were Gailon himself dressed up for some outrageous, impossible Midsummer Festival mummery.

“Ah, I see by your attire we have caught you at a bad time, Princess Briony,” Hendon said with an edge of superiority in his voice that was meant to make her bristle, and did. “You have apparently been engaged in something . . . strenuous.”

She barely resisted the temptation to look down at what she had worn to practice at the armory. For the first time in longer than she could remember she wished she were dressed properly, in the full panoply of her position.

“Oh, but there are no bad times for relatives,” was what she said, as sweetly as she could, “and family is, of course permitted a certain informality of both dress
and
speech. But even among family, one can go too far.” She smiled, with teeth showing. “You will, of course, forgive me for meeting you while dressed this way, dear cousin.”

“Oh, Highness, the fault is all ours. My sister-in-law was so anxious to meet you that I took a chance we might find you out and about. This is Elan M’Cory, the sister of my brother Caradon’s wife.”

The girl made an elaborate courtesy. “Your Highness.”

“We were introduced at your sister’s wedding, I think.” Briony was furious that she should be forced to stand here in her sweaty clothes, but Hendon Tolly was playing a deliberate game and she would not let him see her irritation. She concentrated instead on the young woman, who was roughly her own age and pretty in a translucent, long-boned way. Unlike her brother-in-law, Elan kept her eyes cast down and offered little in the way of reply to Briony’s equally perfunctory questions.

“I really must go,” Briony announced at last. “There is much to do. Lord Tolly, you and I must speak on important matters. Will this evening suit you? And of course you will join us for supper, I hope. We missed your company last night.”

“Tired from the journey,” he said. “And with worry for my missing brother, of course. Doubtless, fears for Duke Gailon have made things difficult for you, too, Highness.”

“It seems there is a conspiracy to make things difficult for me, Lord Tolly, and your brother’s sudden absence is certainly one of them. You might also have heard that my brother Kendrick died.”

He raised an eyebrow at this broad stroke. “But of course, Highness, of course! I was devastated when I heard the news, but I was traveling in northern Syan at the time, and since Gailon was actually here to represent the family at the funeral . . .”

“Yes, certainly.” She suddenly wondered what had really brought Hendon here now, of all times. The two-or-three-day ride from Summerfield Court seemed a bit of a long distance to come simply to cause trouble. Briony couldn’t forget Brone’s spy and his warnings that the Autarch had been in touch with the Tollys, although she couldn’t quite make sense of it. She did not put treachery beyond them, but it seemed a large step—and a large risk—for a family that was already living a fat and comfortable life. Still, as her father had always said, the prospect of a throne could make people do some very strange things indeed. “Now, as I said, I have much to do. I suspect that you will be busy as well. For one thing, you will want to send a message home to your family as soon as you have heard my news.”

He was clearly caught by surprise. “News? Have you heard something of Gailon?”

“I fear not. But I have news, nonetheless.”

“You have the advantage of me, Highness. What is afoot? Will you make me wait until tonight to find out?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard already. We are at war.”

For a moment Hendon Tolly actually blanched—seeing that was worth the humiliation of standing for a quarter of an hour in sweaty clothes. “We . . . we . . . ?”

“Oh, no, not Southmarch and Summerfield Court, Lord Hendon.” She laughed and did not try to make it nice. “No, we are family, of course, your folk and mine. In fact, you will no doubt be joining us—all the March Kingdoms will be going to war together.”

“But . . . but against whom?” he asked. Even the girl was looking up now, staring.

“Why, against the fairies, of course. Now you must excuse me, there really is a great deal to be done. Our army rides out at dawn tomorrow.”

She had the immense satisfaction of leaving Hendon Tolly and his companion speechless, but the cut and thrust with him had driven whatever else she was thinking about straight out of her head, and already a dozen other matters were clamoring for attention. She hoped it had been nothing important.

Neither Chert nor Beetledown spoke much now. The food was long gone, the waterskin was less than half full, and it had become very warm in these very close spaces.

Once through the tunnels bored by the Funderlings and into the caverns on the far side, they had passed down a bewildering variety of passages, all perfectly natural as far as Chert could tell, although it was strange to find natural passages so long and clear. Even though they were not difficult going—in most places he didn’t even have to bend his head—they were complex and confusing: if he had been forced to rely on his memories of his own pilgrimage so many years ago they would have gone far astray. Only Beetledown’s near-silent communication of directions—pokes and prods and the occasional whispered word when his nose detected a stronger scent in one direction—gave Chert any hope of finding Flint and getting out again.

They were decidedly odd places, these tunnels, and not simply because it was difficult to know whether they were entirely natural. The air might be hot and thick, but there was also a strange sweetness to it that made everyone who breathed it light-headed, adding immeasurably to the awesomeness of the ceremonies that took place in the depths.

They were walking along a thin path now, scarcely more than a ledge above a deep emptiness, and Chert was moving very carefully, not least because the light from the first piece of coral was dying. He realized that by any sensible measure they should turn back soon. He hadn’t guessed they would be descending so far, and in fact had thought himself quite clever to have brought a second chunk, but now as he fitted the new lump into his headpiece of polished horn, and the touch of salt water brought it to light, he realized he was one bad choice by little Boulder from being lost in darkness. Chert was a Funderling and did not panic in the dark or deep places, and his sense of touch and knowledge of the deeps were both well-developed, but he still might wander for days before finding his way out—which might be entirely too late for young Flint.

“What
does
be down here?” rasped Beetledown suddenly. The thick, perfumed air seemed to be affecting his voice. “Thy boy, why should un be here at all?”

“I don’t know.” Chert didn’t have much breath for talking either. He wiped sweat from his forehead, then had a moment of fright when he almost brushed his strapped lantern off his head and down into the pit. “It’s . . . it’s a powerful place. The boy has always been strange. I don’t know.”

As they continued down the narrow path, Chert soon began to wonder whether the fetid air was beginning to choke him or whether something stranger was going on. There were times when he thought he heard voices—just the faintest sighing words, as though one of the Guild work gangs were a few hundred steps away down a side passage. At other moments little flashes of light moved through the greater darkness around him, swift as the flecks that gleamed behind closed eyelids. Such things could be a sign of poison air, and in any other place Chert would have turned and retreated, but the air in the deepest part of the Mysteries, although never fresh, was also, as far as he knew, never fatal. Beetledown was having real trouble breathing, however; the Funderling reminded himself that the little man was used to the clean air of the rooftops. In fact, even Chert was beginning to slip in and out of waking dreams about that cold, clean air, so much so that at one point he realized he had wandered only a step from the edge of the path. It was a long way down into blackness, although how long he could only guess.

The murmuring continued all around him. It might have been air currents pushed through the tunnels from the halls above by the tide changing—they were far below the sea now—but Chert thought he could hear snatches of words, sobbing, even distant shouts that raised the hackles on his neck. The temple brothers came down here, he reminded himself, and they survived it, but the thought did little to ease his fears. Who knew what preparations they made, what secret sacrifices they gave to the lords of these deep places? He considered the holy mystery of the Earth Elders and the Quiet Blind Voice and struggled against growing terror.

What
was
indisputable was that light was growing all around him: Chert could begin to see the shape of the chamber through which they were passing. For the first time in hours he felt something like hope. They were reaching an area he recognized, a part of the pilgrimage route. A few moments later, as he escaped the treacherous ledge-path at last, following it through an arch as it burrowed deep into the stone, the milky, blue-white light rose all around them.

“Moonstone Hall,” Chert announced with relief, if not much breath. The coolness of the glowing walls studded with great fractured chunks of palely translucent gemstone was in strange contrast to the swampy air. “You see, these places down here make their own light. We are near to the center of the Mysteries.”

Beetledown said nothing, only nodded, presumably overcome by the grandeur of the cavern, its walls glowing like smoky blue ice.

Chert continued down through the Chamber of Cloud Crystal and into Emberstone Reach, the light like a living thing all around him. His head swimming and eyes dazzled after so long in darkness, he could not help wondering how these great caves could each be so different: it was like no natural place he had seen anywhere else in Southmarch or in his journeys around Eion in his younger days.

But it isn’t a natural place,
he reminded himself.
These are the Mysteries.
A shiver of superstitious dread climbed his spine. What
was
he doing here? Caught up in the search for Flint, he hadn’t performed even the simplest rituals before descending, said none of the litanies, made not a single offering. The Earth Elders would be furious.

It was in Emberstone Reach that he suddenly realized there was a reason for Beetledown’s long silence when the little man swayed and tumbled off his shoulder. Chert caught him and crouched, holding him up to look at him in the light from the orange-gold ember crystals. The Gutter-Scout was alive but clearly in great discomfort.

“Too hot,” he said weakly. “Can’t . . . get air.”

Chert fought a powerful dread. He was so close now! They were only a short distance from the end of the tunnels, at least the end of those parts he and the rest of the Funderlings knew, and thus only a short distance from Flint, but he didn’t want to kill the tiny Rooftopper in the act of saving the boy. He forced himself to think as carefully as he could with head and limbs so weary, then untied the shirt he had tied around his waist when the air got too hot and made a nest for the little man. He put Beetledown in it and set him on a knob of stone high off the ground. Chert knew that poison air, even the milder varieties, was heavy and tended to stay low. He also left the little man his coral lantern for company.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I promise. I’m just going down a little farther.” He gave the tiny bowman his kerchief moistened in water to fight thirst.

“Cats . . . ?” asked Beetledown weakly.

“No cats down here,” Chert assured him. “I already promised you that.”

“Just in case,” the little man said, and sat up—it took much of his strength—then pulled his bow and quiver off and set them down within easy reach before slumping back into the makeshift bed.

Chert hurried on. He had all the more reason for haste now—not just his worries about the boy and about Opal and the dying light of the coral, but also about whether he would repay the kindness of the Rooftopper queen and of brave Beetledown himself with the emissary’s death.

Emberstone Reach ended and the Maze began. He cursed the luck that had brought him into the befuddling labyrinth without the Rooftopper and his keen nose, but there was nothing to be done. Chert remembered something he had been told as a child, at an age when whispering about the initiation was more important than whispering about girls.
Always turn left,
his friends had said with the confidence of those who had not been tested.
When you hit a dead end, turn and backtrack, then do the same thing again with the next tunnel.
At their intiation they had not needed to solve the Maze after all—they had been led in by the acolytes, abandoned for a while, and then led out. Now he had no choice but to try the ancient advice, since this time there were no temple brothers around to help him.