I nod. “Go on.”
“Thousands of years ago, when your people fell from the sky and began remaking this world with their machine magic, my ancestors fled here, to the mountains. But we were cut off from our places of power. After a few generations, we were weakening. Dying out. One of our great leaders, Ugly Twisted Brambles Shelter Bountiful Springs, convinced the nation to dig. As far and deep as we could. He believed—we all did—that if we dug deep enough, we could reach the zafira. Create our own place of power.”
“So you tunneled into the mountains,” Hector says.
“Yes. For generations. It was a national obsession. We used natural caverns as starting places and dug and dug. Inevitably, tunnels collapsed. Many flooded. Some hit bedrock. When that happened, we simply branched out and tried somewhere else.
“But too many people died, some in the collapses, some by breathing poison gas, getting lost, falling to their deaths. Others were caught in the fire of animagi as they brought their Godstones to bear. The project lost support. It was too costly, too deadly. When we discovered that once every hundred years a Joyan was born who never shed his Godstone, who could be used as a conduit to the zafira, it ceased entirely.
“The tunnels remained open for another century; they became ordinary mines for a while. We found gold, silver, gemstones. But the mountains were showing signs of being mined out when strange rumors began. Miners entered and were never heard from again. There were reports of odd noises, strange lights. And when a massive cave-in killed forty miners, the tunnels were closed for good.”
The wind stills. The fire leaps high, its flames suddenly straight and strong. The shadows on the wall waver less because gusts no longer push through the entrance. I raise my head, thinking maybe the storm has stopped, but no. The snow has blocked us in.
Belén springs to his feet, grabs his pole, and pokes it through the top. Snow pours in on top of him, but he keeps working until wind whips over our heads again and the flames jerk and twist.
I turn back to Storm. “But the tunnels are still accessible?” I say. “We could travel through them?”
“No,” he says, even as Waterfall says, “Yes.”
They glare at each other.
“It’s not safe,” Storm says. “They are too old. Any wooden supports are rotted by now. Many of the tunnels are flooded. And there’s something down there. One of the ancient creatures, if I were to guess, from before your people came to this world.”
Waterfall is shaking her head. “I’ve been inside,” she insists.
“When?” he says.
“While you were being tutored and pampered, the other Crooked Sequoia children were left to ourselves. We took turns daring one another to go inside. I was the boldest of all of us. I explored for hours. Once I spent a whole day wandering the mines. It’s dangerous, yes. But the only things down there are animals. I’ve seen bats. A few rodents. Even signs of bear.”
“Do you know the way?” I ask. “Can you get us to Basajuan?”
“I think so. Once I started going regularly, I learned everything I could about them. I found maps in the Crooked Sequoia archive.”
Storm is regarding her thoughtfully. “I would have gone with you,” he says softly. “I would have skipped my lessons to explore the mines with you.”
A hint of a smile graces her face. “I’m sure you believe that,” she says.
My heart twists a little with recognition. Waterfall is like me, the younger sister who yearned for the approval of her older sibling and never got it.
“Do you have these maps memorized?” I ask.
“Almost. The tunnels themselves are named and marked. Many of those markings remain. Some indicate distance and direction. Between the markings and my memory of the maps, I think I can get us through.”
“How long will it take us?” Hector asks.
“Several days.”
Hector turns to me. “We don’t have enough food. No way to feed the horses.”
I glance toward the back of the cave, where our mounts take advantage of the rest and warmth, blissfully dozing on their feet. “Then we start slaughtering them for food.” My voice is as firm as my resolve.
“How far to the nearest entrance?” Belén asks.
“Half a day’s journey. More in deep snow.”
Everyone looks to me for a decision.
“What do you think, Storm?” I say. “Can your sister get us through?”
He shrugs. “My sister is a scout of some renown, and deservedly so. If she says she can do it, she can.”
Waterfall blinks rapidly at the compliment, and a flush of pink colors her perfect skin.
I say, “Then we go as soon as the weather clears. In the meantime, we’ll make our food stretch as far as possible. Hunting and foraging will be everyone’s responsibility as we travel.”
Everyone nods, but Mara frowns darkly beside me. I remember the night she accompanied us into the catacombs beneath my city. Her eyes were as large as dinner plates while we explored, and when she was given leave to go, she fled, practically sprinting back up the stairs. I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.
“Anything I’m not considering?” I ask. “Anyone else have anything to say?”
Silence. Then, tentatively, Mula says, “I do.”
We watch as she stands and approaches the fire. She clasps her hands behind her back, shifts from one foot to the other.
“What is it, Skinny Girl?” Belén asks.
She gives him a shy smile. “I have decided on a name.”
I sit forward. “Oh?”
“My name,” she says with a lift of her chin, “is Red Sparkle Stone.”
No one makes a sound. There is only the popping of the fire, the rush of wind, the pawing of a horse.
Finally I manage, “Well. That is indeed a strong and . . . unique name.”
Mula’s—no, Red Sparkle Stone’s—face lights up. “I knew you’d like it! Red is my favorite color. And sparkle stones are strong. The strongest thing there is. I was thinking you should call me Red, the same way Storm’s whole name is too important to say all the time.”
Oh, thank God. “Red it is, then,” I say, and I look around at our companions, daring contradiction. Mara looks stunned. Storm and Waterfall are wholly indifferent. Hector and Belén are trying very hard not to laugh.
25
WE prepare as best we can while the storm rages outside. Mara ties a rope around her waist and heads out into the blizzard. When she returns, she brings a layer of snow and several large strips of pine bark. She shucks gloves and boots and holds her hands and feet near the fire. Her limbs turn bright red as they warm, and her face twists in agony.
Once she can flex fingers and toes without pain, she gets to work scraping thin sheets of inner bark onto a nearby rock to dry by the fire. Then she grinds it with her mortar and pestle and puts the resulting dirty-white pulp in her empty flour bag.
She sends Belén out for another batch, then Storm, and repeats the process all day until her bag is full.
We decide to leave the horses behind. We need the grain we’d feed them for ourselves, and Waterfall insists that they won’t fit through some of the mine’s narrower passages. Belén assures me that an experienced mountain horse is better suited to winter foraging than its human companions, that if we leave them in the cave’s shelter, they’ll step out when they’re ready to find food, maybe even make their way to the nearest village.
Hector leads Mula’s—no, Red’s—sweet mare outside into the cold and slaughters her. I’m not sure how he can see to do the deed in the raging storm, but he insists the scent of blood will panic the others if he does it inside. I think he does it to spare me the sight.