It would be unpardonably foolish, she decided, not to take advantage of his sure feet, his ability to see in the dark like a cat. So she swallowed her pride and put her cold, moist hand into his warm, dry one. His clasp was light and in no way intimate, but his grip tightened each time her feet slipped. She lost track of the time, concentrating on each step, trying not to think about the unknown depths below.
“Can you see the bottom?” she asked when the suspense of not knowing became unbearable.
There was a long pause before he replied, which was all the answer she needed. “No,” he said at last,
“but I see an opening in the rock up ahead. I don’t think we will have to continue on this way much longer.”
When the light disappeared, Sindérian’s heart dropped.
Prince Ruan’s voice came to her out of the dark. “He has passed through the opening with his lantern.
But it is only a few yards more—as you see, we are already there.”
Indeed, on the right-hand side the light, such as it was, shone out again, and there was a tunnel in the rock. She stepped into the passage with a heartfelt sigh of relief, and Ruan released his grip. There was only time to catch a brief glimpse of his face before he turned away, just enough to see the grim set of his jaw, the frown between his eyes. She realized that he was not so unmoved by their plight as he had sounded on the ledge.
The passage was long and winding, and it led into an intricate maze of caverns, tunnels, and shafts.
Sindérian soon lost track of all the twists and turns. She could see very little by the dim glow of the lantern, moving like a firefly up ahead, but she had a vague suspicion that some of the turns were unnecessary, that Prince Tyr frequently doubled back to make the route even more confusing.
They did not intend that we should be able to find our way forward or back again without a guide. She wondered drearily if it was her own bad luck, the result of Ouriána’s ill-wishing, which had brought them all there.
At several places there were shallow steps cut into the rock, always leading down. Sometimes there were faint, faraway footsteps or the glimmer of lights in distant passages. Sometimes the lamp would briefly illuminate something in passing—a pinnacle of white limestone, a pendent curtain of crystal like a lacework of ice.
Once she heard the Skyrran princes speaking together in low voices just behind her. “If they meant to harm us, I think they would have done so already,” said Kivik.
“I would not depend on that,” answered Skerry. “By all the old tales that ever I heard, they don’t readily admit strangers into their underground kingdoms. Will they be any more ready to allow us to leave again?”
Meanwhile, the dwarves were silent. It did not seem to be a hostile silence, but how could she tell? It had been hard to read their faces when she could see them clearly, and trying to sense their emotions now was like trying to pierce stone. They were manlike, but they were not Men.
“You will begin to find the way more difficult just ahead,” said Prince Tyr. “Only a few feet of rock divide us from the catacombs.”
Sindérian could already feel it: an increase in the weight of the air, which created a resistance like moving through water; a pressure of darkness that made every step a labor to be accomplished only by a concentrated act of will. Her eyes felt gritty; the taste of earth was in her mouth. She realized they had come to a place where the density of darkness was increasing, in the process of altering to something more solid. As a natural transmutation, it was supposed to be the work of centuries, of eons—if it was palpable here, something had occurred to hasten the process.
We are truly in the belly of the earth, she thought. It was a region whose mysteries wizards did not wholly understand.
But at last the pressure of darkness grew less. There was a faint pallor of light, which became stronger as they drew nearer, as if it were spilling out from some brighter place, and there was a low rumble as of many voices.
An archway loomed up out of the darkness: dressed stone of a greenish hue, carved all over with complex figures that might have been ancient runes, long forgotten in the world up above. Even without the symbols she would have known there was a gate spell, one so powerful she sensed it even before the first dwarves passed through. Sindérian wondered if she would be able to follow them.
But the ward opened to admit her, and she walked under the arch without any impediment. It was not a weakness in the spell; neither had it been Prince Tyr’s doing—of that much she was certain. She had felt herself weighed and measured, identified in some way, then allowed to pass. It seemed that someone of greater authority was already expecting them, or, if not aware of them before, would be expecting them now.
“This is the fortress of King Yri,” Prince Tyr announced. “His kingdom of Reichünterwelt extends from Penadamin to Min Rhuidain, and goes nearly a mile deep.”
The prospect before them was truly awe inspiring, a cavernous hall of vast extent rising hundreds of feet above their heads. Doors, archways, cross corridors, passages—a bewildering number opened out on three sides, leading on to further immensities. There seemed, too, to be an infinity of staircases ascending and descending, landings and galleries joining those staircases, balconies looking down on the hall from dizzying heights. In the regions above there was a great traffic of dwarves coming and going by the light of more of the glowworm lanterns, and there were glimpses of more brightly lit spaces beyond and farther in.
“We have entered my father’s palace by a back door,” said Prince Tyr, “for I hope to bring you before the King without creating a disturbance. Your presence among us unannounced would surely cause an uproar.”
He set a faster pace, crossing the great expanse of floor, then passing through an opening on the other side and down a long corridor. From there they threaded a path through kitchens, sculleries, storerooms, and pantries, all of them showing signs of long disuse. Sindérian was reminded of the great hill fortress at Saer, where she and Prince Ruan had wandered long through subterranean chambers much like these.
The reminder was not a pleasant one, and stealing a sideways glance at Ruan to see if he was thinking the same thing, she read tension in every line of his body. Aell, too, appeared troubled and wary. But at Saer they had walked unknowing into a trap, believing they would find friends; here at least they were on their guard.
“Put yourself into our hands,” the dwarf prince had said, “and it may be to your advantage.” Yet that offered cold comfort, for he had made no promises.
They climbed a broad stone staircase with shallow steps to accommodate the short legs of the dwarves.
Rich scents of cooking came down to meet them, as from a kitchen nearby that was still in use. Her stomach growling, Sindérian wondered if the dwarves intended to feed them when they reached whatever place they were heading. It had been so long since her last meal, even bread and water would be welcome.
At the top of the stairs they passed into a small, square chamber and stopped before a massive wooden door. Silver bolts and silver scrollwork hinges seemed to promise a chamber of more than ordinary importance on the other side. “You will remain here until the King sends for you,” said Prince Tyr, handing the lantern over to Kivik. “I do not think you will wait long.” Then he and his band marched off before the prisoners had time to ask a single question.
There was a soft creak of metal, and for the second time a door swung shut, closing Sindérian and her companions in—except that this time they were left alone, and in an unpleasantly confined space.
“We ought to have put up a fight to begin with,” hissed Prince Ruan, “rather than allow ourselves to be taken in this cage of stone.”
“They took us by surprise,” said Sindérian, too tired to argue. “But now we have a little time to plan. If we are questioned, as I suppose we will be, it would be better not to tell them too much—though where we wish to keep something hidden I think we should simply remain silent, making no attempt to deceive them. They may have heard us speaking together on the mountain, and if they catch us in any lies we will only convince them we are up to no good.”