“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 theTollys, 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 awe-someness 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.