Chapter 5 #3
The stone steps beneath my feet are worn smooth at their centers, cobwebs breaking across my face as I descend deeper. I count seventeen steps before the staircase levels into a narrow tunnel, where moisture glistens on stone walls, transforming countless droplets into miniature stars.
The tunnel stretches before me, straight and unwavering. I take a tentative step forward, then another. The air is cool but not unpleasant, carrying a mineral scent. I hold the lantern higher, trying to see farther down the passage, but the darkness swallows the light a few yards ahead.
I press onward, my footsteps echoing softly against the stone. The passage is narrow but tall enough that I don't need to duck. The walls are smooth in places, rough in others, as if carved by different hands at different times.
The tunnel feels both familiar and strange, like a childhood memory half-forgotten. I run my fingers along the rough-hewn walls, feeling the cool dampness against my skin.
After several minutes of walking, the weight of the stone above presses on my awareness.
Have I passed beneath the massive wall encircling Clavenmoor yet?
I continue forward, testing each step carefully, the lantern's glow revealing only a few feet ahead at a time.
With every yard I travel, certainty grows within me.
This passage may be our only salvation. Lurok's route lies collapsed, and Father has never once mentioned this tunnel in his council meetings.
I press on for another hundred paces before turning back, my mind made up.
This path to Vessan-Kar is our sole chance, and we have precious little time remaining.
I emerge from the tunnel, lantern raised, my breath catching as I step into the silent, darkened hallway.
The manor sleeps around me, a slumbering beast whose servants and guards I must evade.
My mission is clear: gather supplies for Lurok and me before returning to the passage.
Five days, that's all we have before Father brings down an entire mountain.
I set my lantern on a side table and adjusted the flame to its lowest setting.
Even this tiny light feels dangerous, a beacon announcing my betrayal to anyone who might pass by.
The kitchen lies at the far end of the eastern corridor, past Father's study, where he and Halvane might still linger over maps and murderous plans.
I press my back against the wall, sliding along it like a shadow, grateful for Leira's soft-soled shoes that whisper rather than announce my presence.
When I reach the intersection that would take me past the study, I pause, listening.
Nothing but the soft tick of the hall clock and the settling sounds of an old house going to sleep.
I dart across the open space, holding my breath until I reach the safety of the darkened servants' passage.
The kitchen door stands slightly ajar, moonlight spilling through the high windows to paint silver squares across the flagstone floor.
I slip inside, freezing when a floorboard creaks beneath my weight.
No response comes. The kitchen sleeps as deeply as its masters.
My fingers trace familiar shapes in the darkness—the smooth curves of ceramic jars containing flour and sugar, the rough weave of bread cloths covering the day's leftover loaves.
I find a canvas sack hanging from a peg near the pantry and begin filling it with provisions that won't spoil: three loaves of bread, wrapped in cloth to prevent crumbling; dried apples and pears from the wire baskets hanging from the ceiling beams; strips of salted pork and beef, pungent with spices and smoke.
A sound from the corridor outside sends my heart into my throat.
I duck behind the massive oak table, clutching my half-filled sack to my chest. Footsteps approach, pause outside the kitchen door, then continue down the hall, a night guard making his rounds.
When silence returns, I exhale slowly through my nose and resume my work.
Water. We'll need water. I locate two leather water skins hanging near the washbasin and fill them from the large ceramic cistern, securing their stoppers with trembling fingers.
A jar of honey follows, its golden contents catching the faint moonlight as I add it to my growing collection.
I take a small pot of butter wrapped in cooling cloths, a wedge of hard cheese sealed in wax, and a pouch of dried beans.
Each item was chosen for its practicality and sustenance during our journey through stone passages and scorched lands.
The infirmary supplies will be trickier. The small room dedicated to the household's medical needs sits adjacent to the housekeeper's quarters, and Mrs. Hadley sleeps as lightly as a cat. One unfamiliar sound, and she'll be in the hallway with a candlestick raised like a weapon.
I gather my now-bulging sack and retrace my steps to where I left the lantern.
The light seems brighter now, more dangerous, but I'll need it to find what I seek in the medicine cabinets.
Lantern in one hand, provisions in the other, I make my way toward the southern wing where the infirmary waits, pulse quickening with each step.
The infirmary door is locked, as always, but I know where Mrs. Hadley keeps the spare key, hidden behind the loose brick three stones up from the floor. My fingers find it unerringly, and the lock turns with a soft click that seems to echo in the silent corridor.
Inside, shelves of glass bottles gleam in my lantern light, their contents casting strange, elongated shadows across whitewashed walls.
I set down my sack of provisions and begin searching for what Lurok needs most: more antiseptic tinctures to prevent infection, more clean bandages, and salves for pain relief.
I find a wooden case containing surgical tools and select a small, sharp knife, my fingers trembling as I tuck it into my belt.
I've only seen Mrs. Hadley use something like this once, when she drained a boil on Cook's arm.
Perhaps Lurok might need it for his wounds?
The books I've read in Father's library mentioned something about debriding injuries, though I'm not entirely sure what that means for naga scales.
The knife feels heavy where it presses against my waist, a weight of responsibility I'm not certain I can bear. What if I cause more harm than healing?
With my sack now bulging with provisions and medical supplies, I make my way back through the silent halls past slumbering servants, each step carrying me further from the life I've known and closer to one I can barely imagine, a journey into enemy territory guided by a creature I've been taught to fear.
At the tunnel entrance, I set down the lantern, lift the hidden panel, and descend into waiting darkness, pulling the rope that seals the panel behind me.
The faint scent of earth and stone envelops me as I continue down worn steps into the tunnel's cool embrace.
After setting my supplies against the rough wall, where my shadow dances in elongated shapes from the lantern's flame, I straighten my spine, climb back up to the manor, and slip out the back door toward the shed where Lurok waits, injured but alive, each step feeling more certain than the last.
Outside, night has fully fallen; the air is cold, and stars scatter across the sky like spilled salt. The manor looms behind me, dark and watchful, as I hurry down the stone path to the potting shed. I reach the weathered shed door and push, but it doesn't budge.
I press harder, but the door refuses to yield even an inch. The weight behind it must be substantial. Lurok followed my instructions to barricade himself inside.
"Lurok," I whisper, my lips nearly touching the weathered wood. "It's me. Serin."
No response comes. The night air suddenly feels colder against my skin, fear prickling along my spine. I tap my knuckles softly against the door, just loud enough for him to hear.
Still nothing.
"Lurok," I call again, slightly louder, though still barely above a whisper. The manor's windows stare down at me like watchful eyes as my heart beats faster. What if his wounds were worse than I thought? What if infection has already set in, pulling him into fever's grip?
I press my palm flat against the door. "Please," I whisper, surprised by the tremor in my voice. "Please answer. It’s Serin. Please… please be alright."
The night holds its breath around me. A breeze rustles through the garden, carrying the scent of late roses and the approach of frost. I press my ear to the wood, straining to hear any sound from within. Breathing, movement, anything to indicate he still lives.