“You are very kind,” said Briony, but the dizzying happiness of only a little earlier was fading. Perhaps she had been wrong about what the message meant. Perhaps the Kallikans themselves were wrong somehow about receiving it at all.
“Come, Princess,” Eneas told her. “It’s time to go back now.”
She allowed herself to be led back through the maze of corridors toward the real world and the late afternoon sun.
24. The Failure of a Thousand Poets
“The Book of the Trigon states that the Godwar took place during the time of the Xixian Sea-Kings, many centuries before the founding of Hierosol.The battle of Shivering Plain is also the first mention in history of the legendary queen Ghasamez (or Jittsammes as the Vuts call her), who led an army to fight on the behalf of Zmeos and the other rogue gods.”
“They’ve broken through! The Twilightfolk have broken through!” One of Sledge Jasper’s warders fell through the doorway of the drumstone chamber, bleeding and staggering like a drunk.
Ferras Vansen leaped to his feet so quickly he almost knocked over the monk beside him. Luckily, the Funderling had just finished pounding on the drumstone wall with what looked like the ramrod for a cannon and Vansen’s message had been sent out into the earth—and more important, he hoped, to the Funderlings of Tessis. “Where have they broken through?” Vansen demanded. “And how many of them?”
Two of the other temple brothers were now holding up the bleeding guard. “Just above the Festival Halls,” gasped the wounded man, “but they’re almost to the temple cavern. Wardthane Jasper and the others have fallen back to the narrows in front of the Curtainfall, but they… will not last long… you must… must send…” The man wobbled and his head sank.
“Leave him with the older Brothers to be cared for,” Vansen said, “and if he is well, let him rest a while and then send him back—we need every hand. Where is Magister Cinnabar?”
“Cinnabar took a troop of warders to look at a suspicious cave-in below Five Arches,” said Brother Nickel. “He will not be back for hours.”
“Then I need someone else. I need men to go with me to the Festival Halls. I cannot find my way around without a Funderling guide.” He had learned from harsh experience that any tracking skills he possessed meant nothing in these lightless tunnels. He turned and surveyed the drumstone chamber. “In fact, we need all these men, Brother Nickel. Half our guards or more are out of the temple, as well as Copper and most of the men he brought. If the Qar break through, we shall be separated from them and under siege.”
“These are religious men, not fighters,” said Nickel angrily, waving his hands at the half-dozen fearful-looking Brothers listening to the argument. “In any case, it is their task to listen for the drumstones—especially now, when we have just sent messages! What if our kin in Underbridge or Westcliff reply to us?”
“Then leave one, preferably someone too lame to fight. Send me all the rest and tell them to bring any weapon they can find—hoes and shovels from the gardens if there is nothing else. They must meet me in front of the temple as quickly as they can—we have no time to lose.”
It was a ragged crew, there was little doubt of that: Ferras Vansen had only a dozen men, most too old or too young, and none of them looked as if he had ever raised a hand to fight before. Vansen had the armor the Funderlings had made for him, but none of his volunteers had anything to protect themselves but the mica goggles, leather helmets, and thick blousy jackets they wore for digging in the wet and dangerous depths.
“Nothing to be done about it,” he told himself, but his heart was heavy. When had troops like these ever won a battle? They were sacrifices, not soldiers. “Where is Chert Blue Quartz?”
“Here,” the Funderling said from the doorway of the temple. The small man hurried down the stairs. “What do you need, Captain?”
Vansen leaned close so only Chert could hear him. “Someone must hurry to Cinnabar below Five Arches. Tell him that if he and his men don’t come quickly we are lost—the Qar have broken through above the Festival Halls. But do not go yourself, do you understand? I need you to stay and make sure Copper and any others who come back are also sent to help us as quickly as possible. It must be you, Chert—I do not trust these priests to understand the danger.”
Chert frowned, considering. “I’ll send someone after Cinnabar right now, Captain, I promise. But it will be hours before he can reach you at the Stair, even if he starts when the messenger finds him.”
“Can’t be helped.” Vansen shook his head. “Ah, I almost forgot. Go to Chaven and ask him… no, lean closer, I must whisper it to you.”
When Vansen had finished Chert looked at him with wide eyes. “Truly? Poison?”
“Quiet, I beg you! I am afraid so.”
“Then we must pray that the Earth Elders are sleeping no longer—that they will wake and help us.”
On an impulse, Vansen thrust out his hand for the small man to clasp, surprising Chert more than a little. “Farewell, Master Blue Quartz. I hope I will see you again, but if the gods wish otherwise, take care of your family—and watch out for that boy of yours, especially. I wager he will play an important part before this is all over.”
Chert nodded. “And be thrifty with your own life, Captain Vansen. We need you. Don’t sell yourself for the first nuggets out of the seam.”
Ferras Vansen had no idea what that meant, but he squeezed Chert’s hand once more, then turned and motioned for his ragtag troop to follow him.
“The Earth Elders protect you!” Chert called after him, and several of the older brothers gathered on the steps echoed him, their voices dry and whispery as mice scuttling in a hay barn.
Chert found one young acolyte who seemed to have more sense than some of his fellows. “Go find Magister Cinnabar down below Five Arches,” he said to the youth. “Tell him the fairies have broken through near the Festival Halls and Vansen needs every man he can get. Go, lad, and hurry.”
A furious Brother Nickel was waiting as Chert passed the chapter house on his way to find Chaven.
“What do you think you are doing?” Nickel demanded. “You cannot give orders to my acolytes. I was given the authority during this crisis. I act for the abbot, not you!”
“Captain Vansen is in charge of defending this place and all of Funderling Town,” snapped Chert. “Cinnabar and the guild told you so. The Qar have broken through and Vansen needed a message sent. There wasn’t time to find you and ask your approval.”
Nickel scowled, but seemed unable to find a response. “Just don’t get too big and shiny, Townsman Blue Quartz,” he said at last. “It was you and your mongrel son who started all this trouble—little people, fairies, outsiders in our Mysteries. Some others may have forgotten that but I haven’t. And now I’m told your monstrous child has caused even more trouble for me.” Nickel stuck a bony finger in Chert’s face. “If it is as bad as I suspect, I will see him sent back to Funderling Town—and you, too, no matter what the guild and your Captain Vansen say.” The monk stamped off like a man intent on crushing every insect in his path.
Chert was in a hurry to find Chaven the physician, but it sounded as though the boy had got himself onto some kind of scree slope again. Could the errand to Chaven wait? He did not want to leave the boy to be bullied or worse by Nickel—the monk was clearly developing a grudge against him. And what if the monk frightened the boy off somewhere? What if Flint fled the temple entirely? It was too dangerous now for the child to be outside on his own.