5. Into the dark
5
INTO THE DARK
“Can Peralon—” Claw stared up at the dark purple leaf canopy.
“Not in time,” Ris said.
Anahrod hadn’t heard the name “Peralon” before. She filed it away as the most likely candidate for the name of Ris’s dragon.
Because Ris was correct: they didn’t have enough time.
“Could we hide under the roots?” Claw asked, which wouldn’t have been a bad idea if only a fire wouldn’t steal all the breathable air. Claw pointed at the possible cave entrance she’d called out earlier.
Anahrod studied the dark opening. What life Anahrod could sense ended early as wet soil gave way to stone. That was an actual cave, and not just an illusion caused by shadows from twining roots.
The girl had good instincts.
“Everyone into Claw’s cave,” Anahrod ordered. “Don’t stop until you hit a wall.”
They had one chance—slim, but better than trying to outrun the blaze. She’d seen targrove fires spread in the distance: no human ran fast enough. She’d seen fires where Overbite wouldn’t have run fast enough.
Kaibren had been repacking his supplies.
“No time for that,” Anahrod snapped. “Leave them.”
The old man hesitated. Then Claw grabbed the knapsack in one hand, Kaibren’s arm in the other, and said, “Sorry, but we’re doing what the troll girl says this time.”
Claw pushed Kaibren into the cave opening.
The rest followed.
The jungle heat shifted from miserable to scorching. The wind rose, summoning the scent of burning wood and bitter, acrid oil. The only real question was how deep the cave might reach. If it would be far enough underground to escape the fire’s wrath.
Light bloomed up ahead. Magic from one of the Skylanders, rather than a true flame. The group ran. When they slowed, Anahrod shouted at them until they picked up the pace again.
As they moved farther in, farther down, the targrove’s sharp fumes faded, replaced by the wet scent of water filtering through solid rock. They’d found an entrance to the cave system. If it was the same one she remembered, the caves joined at an underground river leading to the Bay of Bones.
Gwydinion stopped their flight by tripping and inelegantly face-planting into the cave floor. His cry echoed against the stone walls.
“Are you all right?” Anahrod pulled the boy to his feet.
“I’m just…” He bit his lip and scrunched up his face. He seemed to be about five seconds from a teary breakdown.
“I just banged myself. I’m fine.” Gwydinion rubbed his chin, already bruising.
Ris turned to Anahrod. “Are we far enough from danger?”
“Should be. Air’s cool.”
The light came from a locket Ris held. No doubt an inscribed locket made by Kaibren.
Must be handy to have one’s own personal inscriber.
“Can I borrow that?” Anahrod pointed to the necklace. “The tunnel opens up ahead. Might be a good camping spot.”
Ris studied Anahrod for a long beat. Anahrod wanted to laugh: where, exactly, could she go if she stole the damn necklace? She answered herself immediately: nowhere.
But they didn’t know that.
Ris stepped forward and motioned for Anahrod to open a hand. When she did, Ris hooked the locket chain around two of Anahrod’s fingers. The locket swung crazily and everyone’s shadows twisted on the tunnel walls. Ris closed Anahrod’s painted fingers over the chain clasp. “I’m trusting you with this,” she said.
Anahrod felt the touch of those fingers like a shiver moving through her body. She gently removed her hand. “I won’t be gone long.”
She wasn’t. Anahrod scouted the cavern, then called for the others to join her. Ris reclaimed the necklace immediately.
This time, Anahrod made sure their fingers didn’t touch.
The enormous cave floor slanted down to a precipitous drop. Ten feet, then ten feet again, before sloping downward to where a stream dutifully bored a channel into the rock.
“How beautiful,” Ris breathed.
Anahrod looked again. Ris’s light glittered against the rock, reflecting crystal facets against the uneven walls. Liquid dripped, dissolving the stone to create lances pointing down from the ceiling and rising up from the floor. Other sections of the cave stone had oozed out in gooey, thick fans before hardening again, resulting in a mineral mimicry of organic vegetation.
Anahrod suffered a vague guilt, a feeling of transgression for being too rushed to appreciate the view. Under different circumstances…
Perhaps if her entire world weren’t falling apart.
A loud thump startled her. Anahrod glanced back to see that Kaibren had thrown down his visibly thinner knapsack. He angrily slapped the wall.
“How much of your food did you lose?” she asked him.
The man gave her a frustrated glare. “And humankind discovered the truth of Eannis’s curse, for all food tasted of bile and ash, and provided no nourishment. There remained only one exception: humanity itself, and in the early days of hunger many died to fill the cookpots of their neighbors.”
“No,” Naeron scolded. “Not that bad.”
“As bad as having to resort to cannibalism?” Ris began searching the contents of her own bag. “I should hope not. We all have a little. We’ll pool our stores. I’m sure—” Her gaze halted on Anahrod, and stayed there.
Most Skylanders would’ve assumed that Anahrod would share her provisions. In the Deep, however, people didn’t share food with outsiders.
“I’ll double the price,” Ris answered before Anahrod could comment. “Two hundred scales, if you include your food.”
“Two hundred scales and you and your dragon forget you ever met me.”
Ris’s mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you sure that’s what you want? We’d be happy to take you anywhere you like. No questions asked. Somewhere the Scarsea can’t find you.”
“You underestimate Sicaryon’s tenacity.”
“Sicaryon?” Gwydinion asked. “Who’s Sicaryon? Is he the Scarsea’s leader?”
“Yes. He’s a local warlord,” Anahrod explained, eyes still narrowed at the dragonrider. “One who thinks he’s going to single-handedly re-create his very own Viridhaven down here in the Deep, but with himself in charge instead of ol’ King Cynakris.”
Ris and Naeron exchanged a look.
“Good luck with that.” Ris’s lip curled in something like amusement or contempt. Understandable, as legends of the destruction of Viridhaven went hand in hand with fables of Zavad. Those who worshiped the dark dragon came to an equally dark end, etc.
Anahrod shrugged. “Don’t see anyone lining up to tell him he can’t. He’s the reason staying to fight would’ve been the wrong call. He’s recruited every sorcerer he can find—and you killed two of his people.”
“His reach only extends so far,” Ris countered.
“Not into the Skylands, maybe, but I don’t plan on traveling there.” Anahrod gave Ris a thoughtful look. “Appreciate the offer, but I’ll be content with the money and your silence.”
The redhead sighed. “I suppose that will have to do.”
While they haggled, the others started making camp. Kaibren, though, began drawing light inscriptions on cleared areas of wall, doing so with a speed and skill that made Anahrod blink.
Most inscriptionists needed to consult books, study blueprints and templates. Inscriptions were too complicated to be memorized.
Except, no one had told that to Kaibren.
“So are you going to pull some food out of that sack, Jungle, or am I going to go riffling through that myself?” Claw pointed Anahrod’s bag.
“Good way to lose fingers,” Anahrod said, but she also got the hint.
They could’ve made a fire there, if they’d had anything besides their own clothing to burn. Unfortunately, rock made for poor fuel, so they made do with cold rations. She added her own provisions to Kaibren’s stores, and mentally wished, hardly for the first or last time, that the trip through the caves would be short.
Anahrod shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She paused as her body’s signals caught up with her.
She was cold.
How long had it been since the last time she was cold? She couldn’t remember. Years and years. She wasn’t equipped to deal with the cold. She didn’t have any blankets or cloaks—no excess fabric of any kind. Even without inscriptions, the Skylander clothing was now exactly right for the environment.
Whereas she wore nothing but several well-placed leather triangles and body paint. People sometimes thought Deepers in the jungles wore body paint to protect them from the sun, but the whole reason Deepers were so pale was because the sun rarely reached them. No, the body paint protected against heat—and now made her vulnerable to the cold.
“Anyone have a shirt I could use?” she asked.
Silence answered her before Claw barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Sure, Jungle. Fifteen scales.”
Anahrod raised an eyebrow. “And my fee just went up twenty scales. Care to continue?”
Claw made a rude gesture. “Where would a troll even spend Skylander scales down here? Do you have some local taverns I haven’t heard of?”
“Hey!” Gwydinion shouted, and quickly silenced himself, swallowing his embarrassment as he gulped air. Gwydinion glanced sideways at Naeron. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”
The heavyset man appeared discomforted, but waved away the apology. He closed his eyes, then put the fingers of one hand to the opposite wrist and began tapping.
Gwydinion turned back to Anahrod and Claw and puffed up his chest in an adorable approximation of authority. “What I mean is that my father says that Seven Crests scales—which are minted in Crystalspire—are good anywhere for a thousand miles in any direction, up or down the mountains, because they’re impossible to counterfeit. That makes them safe and reliable and is the reason that Crystalspire is the greatest city in Seven Crests and—”
“Breathe,” Anahrod suggested.
He inhaled. Anahrod took advantage of the pause to ask: “Who’s your father?”
Ris interposed herself. “Does it really matter?”
Claw transferred her irritation from Anahrod to Gwydinion. “It’s cute that your daddy thinks anyone down here knows what Skylander coin looks like, but—”
“It’s not cute,” Gwydinion insisted. “It’s sensible. Because there is trade between the trolls—” He gave Anahrod an apologetic glance. “I mean, between the Deep and the Skylands, with Seven Crests. We use a dye that can only be gotten from a jungle bug, and another dye made from rare seaweed. Important cooking ingredients can only be found here. We aren’t—I mean, it’s not like Skylanders come down here to harvest any of that ourselves, do we? That means trade, but I think you already know that. You’re just saying otherwise because you’re mean.”
Anahrod bit her lip. She wouldn’t smile. She would not .
Claw threw back her head and guffawed loudly. “I’m starting to like you. You’ve got more spine than I would’ve expected from a rich kid from Crystalspire.” She then gave Anahrod a more serious expression. “I already gave you my extra shirt and you tied it to that titan drake. I don’t have any spares.”
“You can borrow one of mine,” Gwydinion offered. “I brought extra.” He retrieved said garment from his pack.
“Thank you.” Anahrod slipped on the shirt, trying her hardest to ignore the hollow feeling as she noticed the smocked sleeves, the whitework trim. The sleeves were wider than she expected, likely to allow room for the pair of metal bracelets the boy wore, but otherwise the main hallmarks of Crystalspire fashion remained.
That single thin shirt made a startling difference in her comfort, but then: magic. Like everyone else’s clothing, it was undoubtedly inscribed. If that shortened the garment’s life to months instead of years, well, Skylanders could just buy another one, couldn’t they?
Truly, the gulf between Skylanders and Deepers, who had no inscribers, was a span much greater than altitude. Deepers had sorcerers, but those magical talents were less useful for creature comforts than for fighting off actual creatures. The Skylands used its magic to live luxuriously, while the Deep used its magic to survive.
Dinner was eventful only in that it provided one more piece of unnecessary proof that Naeron was born a Deeper.
“That’s chena?” Naeron asked Anahrod. He had a covetous look, desire warring with propriety and winning. His eyes were filled with a longing usually reserved for rediscovering the homemade treats of childhood—for that nostalgic reminder of hearth and home.
Anahrod tossed him a piece. “Yes.”
He tore into it with unsubtle, enthusiastic vigor.
“What is that?” Gwydinion asked.
Anahrod shrugged. “Mushrooms fermented in loquari sap, dried, then coated in crushed honeyplum. Keeps forever. Good trail rations.” Also delicious, but they’d figure that out on their own.
“My father—” That was as much as Naeron managed. Then he stood up, left the group, and sat down facing away from them. He put his arms over his head, rocking back and forth.
Ris inhaled sharply. “Everything’s fine. He gets like this sometimes. I’ll be right back.”
She approached Naeron’s position with the same delicacy as a heretic attempting to rob a church. She held out her hand, said something too soft for Anahrod to hear.
“Don’t mind him,” Claw said crisply. “Naeron just gets overwhelmed. He’ll be fine once he has his heartbeat back under control.” She glared at Anahrod as if daring the woman to pry further.
“I’ll take your word for it.” It wasn’t any of Anahrod’s business. Naeron had some odd mannerisms, but so did anyone, in the right circumstances. She did wonder, though, at a man who was perfectly calm while killing rock wyrms or people, but found himself overwhelmed to the point of collapse from remembering his father’s cooking.
Sure enough, Naeron came back with Ris around a half hour later. Anahrod had put away the chena by then. Naeron didn’t ask for another piece; she didn’t offer one.
Sensibly, the Skylanders were using their mantles as bedding. Mantles were incredibly versatile garments that could be folded into bags or packs, or, yes, bedrolls. Not perhaps the most comfortable sleeping mats that had ever existed, but infinitely better than the damp rock floor.
Which was where Anahrod would be sleeping.
Ris cleared her throat. The woman eased herself over to the far side of the mantle she’d spread out on the ground. “It’ll be a little cozy, but I’m willing to share.”
Anahrod’s instinct told her to refuse. It’s not like the woman had been subtle in her flirting, but Anahrod had no idea if it had been serious. Ris might’ve been raised a Skylander, but as far as the dragonrider knew, Anahrod was not. By Skylander customs, it wasn’t appropriate to flirt with Anahrod since she wasn’t wearing any rings.
Ris had done it anyway.
But what were Anahrod’s options, really? There wasn’t room with Naeron, she wouldn’t feel safe with Claw, and Kaibren would probably be fine, except she didn’t know how his “bodyguard” would react. Sharing a mantle with Gwydinion seemed like a cruel thing to do to a boy in the middle of all the uncomfortable awakenings of his transition to adulthood.
So Ris it was.
Except what Anahrod said was: “I’ll stain your mantle.”
Ris stared her right in the eyes. “Only if we do it right.”
Anahrod pinched the bridge of her nose. She walked right into that, hadn’t she? Ris was enjoying herself. Teasing. Pushing.
Anahrod reminded herself that, no matter how beautiful this woman might be, she was a dragonrider. No one Anahrod could risk becoming involved with.
Not for a fling. Not for fun. Not ever.
That reminder did nothing to warm the chill lingering in her bones, so she walked over to the blanket and lay down in the space offered.
Ris behaved herself with impeccable propriety.
Anahrod told herself, repeatedly, that she wasn’t disappointed.