I scramble toward him, wrap his slender body in my arms, and bring his head down to my shoulder. We rock back and forth together. Then he starts to keen, a high-pitched nasal sound that sends shivers into my core.
Mara wakes soon after. Her voice is thick and cracked, her movements slow, but she has enough spark to snap at Belén to stop hovering. She makes herself hot tea to help her aching throat and sits beside the fire sipping, staring over the edge of her mug at Waterfall’s body. We have laid it out on a rock and covered it with her cloak, which is not quite long enough to cover the toes of her boots.
I come up behind her and reach down to grip her shoulder. “Not much farther,” I assure her. “Hector thinks we’re only two days’ journey from the surface.”
She nods, staring off into the darkness. “Two more days,” she whispers. “I can do this for two more days.”
I bend over and put my arms around her neck, my cheek to hers. “Thank you for not dying.”
She grabs my forearm with one hand and squeezes, but says nothing.
Inviernos don’t bury their dead; they burn them. We gather as much fallen timber as we can find and built a small pyre. It won’t be enough. The wood will burn too fast, and Waterfall’s half-melted corpse will be open to scavenge. But Storm insists, and none of us has the heart to deny him this small thing.
We light the pyre. Storm mutters something in the Inviernos’ most ancient language, and then we turn our backs and head into the same tunnel where Hector and Red found Waterfall. We move quickly, but we cannot outpace the scent of burning flesh.
We soon reach a larger chamber, and this must be where Waterfall spooked the scorpions, for it is covered in dry moltings. Thousands of empty carapaces crunch beneath our boots as we walk through. One wall is covered in tiny pearlescent orbs that pulse and heave as we pass. Eggs.
We stay as far from the wall of eggs as possible. None of us speak. We are listening hard for the sound of another swarm.
A different tunnel leads us away, and we follow Hector into it eagerly, desperate to leave behind the scorpions’ lair. This tunnel is less jagged than the others. Our torchlight catches on a thick vein of sparkling quartz, and I am not too sad and weary to find it beautiful.
We pause at an intersection. Hector tells Red to hold the torch for him so he can study the map. “This way,” he says, indicating right again. This time our path slopes upward, and in spite of the burn in my thighs, my steps quicken. The others do the same, for it is the first time in days our path has inclined.
It seems that we travel forever. My awareness of time becomes a palpable, tortuous thing, each step marking a moment, each step coming too slow. I miss arching sun, the changing shadows, rising and falling temperatures. Here in the belly of the mountains, nothing changes. No matter how long we walk, it is still dark, still rocky, still cold and damp, with no end to our journey in sight.
When we pause to eat and rest, Belén frowns at the dried horsemeat in his hand and says something about wishing it was salted and spiced. Mara snaps that he should feel lucky he has anything to eat at all, that it’s not her fault they didn’t have time to prepare proper food. When Red insists that all the food we eat is delicious, they both turn on her and glare.
Even Hector steps away from the group for a while, and I consider following, but if he’s as exasperated and irritable as everyone else, he might want some space to himself.
Storm has said little since leaving his sister behind. He is like the old Storm—taciturn and cold, his face as pleasant and bland as a stone statue. I hope I am not losing him too. Grief does strange things to people—I know it well.
Hector returns from the shadows, holding Waterfall’s map. Belén says, “I hope you know what you’re doing with that thing,” and his voice is snappish and accusatory.
The two men glare at each other.
We need to get out of these tunnels as soon as possible. Or we’ll tear ourselves apart in frustration.
I lurch to my feet, dusting off crumbs. “Break is over. Let’s go.”
Our path turns into a series of uneven steps that wind upward. Water trickles down the steps and into the depths. “Step carefully,” Hector warms. “It may be slippery.”
“Water is a good sign, right?” Mara says to me. “It’s probably not groundwater. It must be coming from outside.”
I have no idea if this is true, but I say, “Yes, a very good sign.”
We take a left and then a right. I’m studying the wood beams—they are more plentiful here, and the ceiling is a little higher—when Red exclaims, “Light! I see light!”
Sure enough, the shroud of shadows beyond our puddle of torchlight seems a little less black. In spite of Hector’s warnings, we step faster, and gradually the walls of the tunnel ahead come into focus—the gray rock, the drip stains from rainwater, the remnants of wood beams.
The tunnel curves around to the left, and we reach a dead end.
“No!” Mara whimpers.
A rockfall blocks our path. Faint light seeps through small cracks near the top. The air here is fresh and cool, and as we stare in dismay at the blocked tunnel, a breeze whistles through the cracks, bringing the tangy, fresh scent of pine forest.
“What do we do?” Mara says, panic edging her voice.
“Can we move some of the rocks?” Belén asks.
“Maybe,” Hector says. “But we might bring the mountain down on top of us.”
I say, “I can do it.”
Hector raises an eyebrow. “I know you can. But we still have the problem of instability. While you’re blowing through it with your Godstone, what’s to keep us from getting crushed?”
Storm steps forward. “I can do it.” His skin is gray in the gloom, like that of a corpse.
“You want me to create a barrier,” I say.
He nods.
“It takes a lot of energy to blow through a rock wall,” I say. “It took me several tries. I passed out a lot.”
He shrugs. “This isn’t solid granite like in the Temple of Morning. It has weak points. There and there.” He points near the top, where light is leaking through. “I’ll concentrate my firebolts there.”
“Can you do it?” Hector says to me. “Can you hold the whole mountain up if necessary?”
The last barrier I created collapsed far too soon. But this time, I won’t be shooting firebolts at the same time.
“I think so,” I say finally. “I’m not sure, but . . . what are our chances of finding a way around the blockage?”
Hector rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Not good. Not before we run out of food.”
“Maybe scorpions are edible,” Belén says, and we all shoot him a collective glare.
“I don’t want to go back,” Mara says. “I’d rather take my chances with a cave-in. And it’s not just because I despise caves with all the rage of a hurricane. I’m not convinced it’s any safer down there.”
“I agree with Mara,” Belén says. “We’ve already encountered a false floor, a swarm of deadly scorpions, and a rockfall. Who knows what else is waiting for us?”
These are the kinds of decisions I hate. It seems my choices too often are reduced to a single question: How would I rather die? Starvation? Scorpion venom? Falling to my death?
Getting crushed to death would at least be quick, so I say, “Let’s try it. Storm, are you ready now, or do you need to rest?”
“I’m ready. Let’s go easy and slow at first. Small firebolts, small barrier.”
I breathe deep through my nose, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, and ground myself to the earth. “Everyone else should probably get back,” I say as Storm pulls his amulet from beneath his cloak.
I close my eyes and draw in the zafira. Along with the power comes confidence. I feel competent, strong. I hold tight to the power, preparing to exert my will. My Godstone hums joyously.