Chapter II #4
Time as a concept did not seem to exist at the heart of the mountain.
The Priest had walked out to its farthest reaches on a hundred occasions now, always in company with hapless Corrinians, and he could never gauge how long the journey took.
All he knew was that he returned to his spare, comfortless cell thirsty and ravenous, and weary in his very soul.
This journey was no different. As he stopped at the cavern’s innermost point, where a stir of dank, chill air signaled the presence of a tunnel opening, the Priest could feel it already.
Not physical tiredness yet, but a bleakness of spirit.
The girl at his side seemed to sense it and squeezed his hand with her small fingers.
“This is for your queen,” the Lyrien girl whispered, and pressed something into his other hand. A thin braid of soft leather from which a smooth stone hung. “A gift, to remind her of home. Tell her, someday I will give her another and worthier gift, and that I offer them both with an open heart.”
Without seeing the jewel, the Priest knew what it must be. That it would cast a pale blue glow in the darkness. It was nightglass—a gem the followers of the Beloved Three revered, and that the Invers believed cursed.
“She can’t have that,” the Priest said, giving the jewel back to the girl. “It would be dangerous for her if anyone found it in her possession.”
“Please,” the Lyrien girl begged. “It’s important.”
Taking the necklace, the Priest shoved it into his pocket. He’d get it to Ariana if he could, or dispose of it if not, but the child could at least feel she’d done her duty.
“This is it,” he said abruptly to the small group.
“You can feel the tunnel ahead of you. There’s no light for a little while, but supplies and torches have been left at intervals throughout.
No, I don’t know where it goes, and no, I don’t know how long it will take.
I’ve been told that you’ll find… a new beginning at the other end.
A place to forget Corrin’s misfortunes. I’m not aware that such a place exists on the Hand, and no one ever comes back, so you could very well be walking to your graves.
But that’s none of my business. This, and only this, is my end of the bargain. ”
“Why should we trust you?” one of the sorias asked.
She’d not spoken yet, save to tell the Priest where to find her mark, and had a low, musical voice.
“There could be soldiers down there, waiting to take us captive. To haul us off to one of your king’s prison camps, or to treat us with the violence they inflict on Caervallion’s southern villages and outposts.
It’s barbarous, the way the Invers deal with their enemies. ”
The Priest had already opened his mouth, ready to say something hot and furious about the risk to himself, and how he owed Corrin no favors.
It would cow the soria, he knew. The same conversation had transpired between him and a dozen Corrinians.
They all backed down immediately in the face of anger, unwilling to displease their goddess by becoming embroiled in an argument.
But the girl whose hand still rested cool and soft in his own answered before he could.
“Aline, for shame,” she said sharply. “To be graceless to someone who offers us help. You must petition gentle Lyria to grant you more charity.”
“Yes, Lynette,” the other soria answered, her voice schooled into serenity once more. “You’re right, of course.”
“This is where I leave you,” the Priest said gruffly. He heard footsteps begin to retreat down the tunnel at once—first the heavier tread of the nameless Corrinian man, then the lighter steps of the two older sorias, keeping pace with each other.
Only the girl, Lynette, was left, and she’d not yet let go of the Priest’s hand.
“You truly don’t know where it leads?” she asked, uncertainty clouding her words.
“I don’t.” For the first time, the Priest felt regret, that he had no answer or reassurances to offer. “I’ve led a hundred of your people to this road without knowing where they go or if they’ll ever return.”
“I’m afraid,” the little soria whispered, as if speaking only to herself. But the admission cut the Priest to the core. He’d spent his whole life in company with fear, and Lyria’s daughters always seemed to see that in him.
“Go with the gods or the goddesses,” the Priest said, pressing a rough kiss to the top of the little soria’s head. “Whichever of them happen to be watching. And if they watch, may they smile on you.”
“Thank you, Adda,” the soria said, using the Corrinivar word for a father of the faith, and then she was gone.
That single word weighed heavier on the Priest than the whole of the mountain, because it reminded him intolerably of Orden’s queen.
All the way back through the lightless depths of the cavern he was haunted not by the restless spirits of the women his family had slaughtered two hundred years ago but by the voice of his brother’s wife.
Adda. Another child is coming. And I’m afraid this one will be the death of me.