Chapter 16 #3
I cast a last look back and catch a glimpse of the queen, standing over the fallen bodies of her husband and Artoris. Her proud dignity and ferociousness withers, and she looks strangely abandoned. But there is a chilling triumph in her gaze as well. I watch her heft the scepter, considering.
Then we turn a corner, and she is beyond my sight.
Lyria takes me on a roundabout route through the castle, avoiding guards and merrymakers alike.
Her deflection runes prove strong; no one seems to have discovered the bridegroom’s corpse yet.
She leads us without incident out to the castle gardens, where all is very still and empty.
Strains of lively dancing music lilt on the night breeze, bearing with it the laughter of all those oblivious revelers.
It is a haunting sound to my ear. The spring air still carries a trace of winter’s chill, but the flowering shrubs perfume the air so gently, one could almost forget the imminent peril surrounding us.
My guide’s footsteps are quick and sure in the darkness.
I suspect she’s using witch magic to augment her eyesight, for she sees as well as any ibrildian and never stumbles.
Sooner than I expect, we reach the bottom of the garden and the doorway leading into the sacred courtyard.
She makes a sign above the door—another rune, I trust—and it opens silently to give us entrance.
“Hurry.” She beckons, as though expecting at any moment that we’ll be set upon.
I duck my head and carry Ilsevel under the low lintel.
Immediately I feel the change in the air as we step from the mortal garden into this hallowed space.
The difference is so profound, I come to an abrupt halt and simply stand there for some moments, breathing in the air, which is far more nourishing to my lungs.
With each breath, I exhale a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Nornala for guiding me this far, for leading me back to Ilsevel.
Now, if she will just guide us a little farther . . .
“This way,” Lyria says, breaking the moment.
She motions sharply, and I follow her around the basin and the statue of the lovers to the ivy wall at the back of the yard.
She sweeps back the ivy. I catch another flashing glimpse of green runes, which vanish almost immediately, leaving a faint burn behind my eyelids.
“Watch your step,” Lyria cautions as she leads the way down the narrow stair.
I am obliged to adjust my grip on Ilsevel so as to keep from bashing her head against the too-close wall.
I hate to jostle her, knowing full well the pain I am causing.
But I haven’t any choice. Leaving behind the moonlight, I plunge into that dark descent, following the witchy woman who has become my unexpected ally.
A storm of thoughts preys on the boundaries of my mind, seeking entrance. Larongar’s voice seems to ring inside my head: “Did you not know? Your father is at the heart of it all.”
I don’t have to believe it. Larongar is an avowed liar; nothing he says should be accepted at face value. Only . . .
Only I do believe.
But I cannot let these dark thoughts overwhelm me. Not while Ilsevel’s life hangs in such precarious balance.
Pushing down all fears and horrors and locking them tight where they cannot influence me, I focus instead on the back of Lyria’s head, which even my ibrildian eyes struggle to discern in this deep darkness.
The uncarved stone walls seem to be closing, and I don’t know how much farther my broad frame can go.
Just when I fear I’ll have to turn back, the space before me suddenly opens up.
I step out from the stairwell into a damp cavern.
The music of trickling water on stone fills my ears.
Moonlight pouring through crevices in the high ceiling overhead illuminates the world so brilliantly, I blink at the glare.
My breath catches, and I turn slowly in awe, taking in the very cavern Ilsevel once described to me.
The faces of the seven gods surround us—not carved by the hand of man, but formed naturally by the flowing water which trickles in rivulets down the walls.
The smooth plains and sharp edges are all so well defined, and yet a slight turn of the head, and they simply vanish into stone, invisible to all who doubt their presence.
“Elawynn, Goddess of Mercy,” I whisper, my breath chilled in the air before me. “Lamruil, God of Darkness.”
They are all present, the six minor gods, and the Great Goddess, Aneirin, at their head, dominating the largest wall across from me.
The image of her face is so vast, so beautiful, it nearly sends me to my knees.
My heart is flooded with love and terror in equal measure.
This grotto is undoubtedly the source of the holiness which permeates the air of the garden overhead.
Lyria stands a little to one side, watching me closely. “It’s something, isn’t it?” she says at last, her voice breaking the spell of wonder.
I feel like a man restored from stone as I turn to her. “How did this place come into being?” I ask, breathless.
“I’m not certain,” she replies. “I believe it was from long ago, before the Kingdom of Gavaria was founded. This whole region was ruled by priestesses—now called witches by most—who directly served under the individual gods. Tradition among the Imra Sisterhood says this grotto was a place of harmony, where all the tribes united to worship the seven gods together, under the headship of Aneirin, the Deific Mother. As a reward for this unexpected unity, the gods themselves endowed this place with divine presence, a gift for the generations to come.” She sighs heavily and shrugs.
“Not that the generations have cared a great deal for it. I don’t know that anyone remembers it exists save for the remnants of the Imra. ”
With those words, she steps deeper into the grotto.
My eyes, adjusting to the light, now see the tunnels Ilsevel once described to me, leading off into winding darkness below stone.
Lyria leads me to Nornala’s enormous face.
The way the water falls down her stone makes the Goddess appear to be weeping.
It breaks my heart to see it, and I look away hastily, focusing on Lyria, who approaches the mouth of a tunnel.
“This is the way for you,” she says. Her words echoing hauntingly against stone.
I frown. “I need to get to Elydark. He waits for me and—”
“Then this path will lead you to him.”
“How do you know?”
“It is the nature of these paths. They lead where you must go, but only if your purpose is true. If your aim is impure or even simply confused, you might wander forever in the dark.”
She reaches out then and touches Ilsevel’s face, lying cold against my shoulder.
Her brow puckers gently, and I think I see the glint of tears behind her swiftly-blinking lashes.
“Hold fast to your purpose, Taarthalor of the Licornyn,” she says softly.
“Carry my sister to your unicorn and see her healed.”
“Won’t you come with us?” I ask. “Ilsevel may need you yet.”
But she shakes her head. “My purpose is not clear; therefore, I dare not take these paths.” Sorrow edges her voice, and I suspect the temptation to run away is very strong.
She steels herself, however, and draws back several paces.
Bending, she plucks something from the shadows.
It’s a little satchel, which I had not noticed before. She drapes it over my shoulder.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Some necessities,” she replies simply. Then her hand grips my arm, tugging me toward the tunnel. “Go,” she says. “I don’t know how much longer that stasis rune will last. Save my sister, if you can.”
I turn to the opening. It’s pitch dark, so dark even my half-fae sight can make nothing of what lies ahead. Part of me wonders if this is some trick on Lyria’s part, if she means to entrap me in this darkness somehow. But we’ve come this far, and she has proven a trustworthy ally.
I shoot her a quick glance, wondering if I should offer thanks for everything she has done for me. All my words feel foolish, however. In the end I simply nod. And take a step.
“Wait,” Lyria says.
I look back at her, standing in a patch of moonlight, very pale and determined. “If—” she begins then stops herself, jaw firming. “When Ilsevel wakes, will you tell her something for me?”
I lift my brows, waiting.
“Tell her . . .” She licks her lips, then gives her head a short shake.
“Tell her, I do not believe Aurae is dead. In fact I’m almost certain she’s alive.
Tell her I plan to go after her if I can.
” She swallows then, and once more I see the gleam of tears in her eyes.
“Tell her that what happened to Aurae wasn’t her fault.
The gods have their own purpose, and they will see it through. Both for her and for Aurae.”
Questions pile up on my tongue. How could she have come by this idea? She was not there. Not like I was. She did not see Ilsevel collapsing in horror before that pyre of scorched corpses. She did not hold Ilsevel while she fell to pieces, wracked with sorrow and guilt at the loss.
Then again . . . neither Ilsevel nor I actually saw Aurae’s body. We had only the testimony of others, but who’s to say they spoke the whole truth? These are things I will have to consider more closely once my wife is safe. For now her needs must be my only priority.
“I will tell her, Lyria,” I say.
She nods, swallowing hard.
Without another word, I turn and, offering a short prayer to Nornala to guide us through, plunge into that darkness.