Our companions are just ahead, looking back at us wide-eyed and breathless.
Except Waterfall. “It’s not far,” she calls from the tree line calmly, as if we are out having a casual stroll. “I’ll lead. Everyone walk in my tracks. It will pack the snow a little and make it easier for the queen and the commander to walk without snowshoes.” To me she hollers, “Yell if you get stuck.”
Something about her nonchalance gives me strength, and I press forward, refusing to think about how close we just came to death.
We weave through a stand of young pines, over a lip of what I think is granite but might just be a large snowdrift, and come face-to-face with a mound that’s too perfect and round to be natural.
We pause to catch our breath. “The entrance is snowed in,” Waterfall says. “We’ll have to dig.”
Mara groans. “Of course we will.”
26
WE fall to our knees and shovel at the snow. It’s much softer here, and our gloved hands do the trick. Suddenly a chunk of snow breaks free and falls away, opening up a dark hole. We scramble back from the edge.
Waterfall says. “The snow is so deep that we’re at the top of the entrance.”
We work at the edges, opening up the hole and packing the snow down until Red is able to scramble up and over. After a moment her head pokes up over the edge. “It’s dark and smelly,” she says with a wrinkled nose.
Mara pulls her tinderbox and one of her precious candles from her pack, lights the candle, and hands it over the edge to Red. The rest of us climb inside and spread out, taking stock.
The tunnel is roughly arched, with an uneven floor that slopes gradually downward. Beams brace the walls at regular intervals, though some have toppled into the center. They are in various stages of decay, and shimmery with cobwebs.
“We’ll collect wood and resin for torches and firewood,” I say. “As much as we can carry. Storm and I can use our Godstones for light if necessary, but I’d rather save our strength for emergencies.”
“There’s plenty of wood along the way,” Waterfall says. Her sharp features seem nearly skeletal in the shadows cast by our single flame of light. “These beams burn well, and torches are stashed throughout. Some are very old, but they’ll be better than nothing. When we encounter the stashes, though, I suggest we take several, because a few stretches of our journey will take us through tunnels that were never well used.”
In demonstration, she bends over the shadow of what might be a wooden crate and pulls out a torch that is black and dry with age. She holds it toward Red, who lights the end with her candle. It catches instantly, washing the icy tunnel entrance in shades of orange. “Ready?” she says.
I grab Mara’s hand and say, “Will you be all right?”
She breathes deep through her nose and says, “I have to be, don’t I?” Then she pulls her hand away and steps resolutely forward.
“Be alert,” Storm says. “We’ll be going farther and deeper than my sister has ever been. I know that in Joya d’Arena, rumors are something to scoff at, due to the prevaricating, deceiving nature of your people. But in Invierne, rumors of danger should be taken seriously.”
“Hopefully, it is less dangerous than volcanoes and avalanches and freezing temperatures,” I say, but Storm just shrugs.
Belén grabs a few more torches from the crate, we tighten the waist straps of our packs, and together we turn our backs on the entrance and follow Mara into the belly of the earth.
PART III
27
AFTER being on the open road for so long, it feels deeply wrong to be closed in, to see only as far as the torch’s meager splash of light will allow. We will be in these tunnels for days, according to Waterfall. But we can only see as far as the next few steps.
We walk in silence, ears pricked to detect what our eyes cannot see. So far there is only the scuffing of our feet against fallen gravel, our heavy breathing, and distantly, an echoing plink-plink of water. I dread the moment I hear anything else.
These tunnels were not created for comfort. Their sole purpose, at least at first, was to penetrate the mountains as quickly and deeply as possible in search of the zafira. So our path twists and curves to take advantage of natural caverns and fissures. The floor is rough, and we step carefully, wary of a twisted ankle. When the tunnels narrows to a crevice, we remove our packs to squeeze through sideways, one by one. Even the packs don’t fit—we are forced to unload them, hand the larger items through, and repack them on the other side.
I’m one of the last to go, and I squeeze through, back and breasts scraping rock, worrying what will happen if we encounter a place too tight to get through.
When I reach the other side, I find Mara crouched over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. I start toward her, thinking to offer comfort, but Belén gets there first. He grabs her hand and pulls her against him, wraps his arms around her, and whispers something.
I back away, feeling like an intruder.
Twice we encounter branched corridors that appear as gaping black holes to the left. We stop so Waterfall can study them. Runes, like the ones we saw in the Temple of Morning, are carved into the wall beside them. Both times, Waterfall makes the decision to pass by.
It’s impossible to mark the time here. I’ve no idea how long we’ve traveled or how far we’ve come when I consider calling a halt for the day. Maybe it’s too early. And we have a lot of ground to make up after being stuck in the storm. But my legs tremble and my lower back aches from the weight of my pack.
It is Belén who decides for me. He stumbles, ramming his shoulder into an outcropping. He doesn’t cry out, but I’ve so rarely seen Belén be clumsy that it stops me cold. Thinking of the night he fell asleep on watch, I give the order. “Let’s camp.”
“Oh, thank God,” Mara says.
We drop our packs and plop to the ground. Mara starts pulling cooking utensils out of her pack, but I put a hand on her forearm. “No need, Mara. We can eat cold food tonight. Just rest.”
“Please, Elisa? I need to . . . do something.”
“Oh. I see. In that case, I would love some tea.”
She smiles gratefully.
Red drags a toppled wood beam toward the center of our tight camp. She and Mara attack it with ax and handsaw. It falls apart a little too easily. They get a fire going, and the light is so much brighter than that of a mere torch that we all breathe a collective sigh of relief.
We don’t need a fire for warmth—though the tunnel is chilly, it is considerably warmer than the outside wintry air—but I decide that so long as we can find wood, we should have a fire every night. Just to force a little normalcy on this strange journey.
Hector settles beside me. “Only two approaches to guard,” he says, pulling a whetstone and oilcloth from his pack. “We’ll only need one person on watch at a time.” He starts to whisk the dagger against the whetstone, and I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes to absorb the familiar sound. For the rest of my life, however long that might be, hearing blades being sharpened will remind me of Hector and Belén.
“No watch tonight,” I tell him. “I know it’s risky, but we’re desperate for rest. I need everyone sharp.”
“We’re just trading one risk for another,” he says. “But in this case, I think it’s a good trade.”
Red squeals, and we both jump in our seats. Hector is on his feet in an instant, with me not far behind. Her form is barely visible in the shadowy blackness just outside the range of our firelight. She crouches down, staring at something.