Chapter 13
Jesamin
My last sight was the shock in Wroth’s blue eyes before I plunged without a sound, nothing but air beneath me.
I hit the water like a stone, every muscle cramping with the icy shock, lungs freezing, darkness swallowing me. But I didn’t sink.
The river was an inexorable force, ripping me along with such violence that my stiff limbs flailed like a ragdoll’s. There was no gravity, no sense of direction; only the absolute surety that I would drown when my aching lungs finally gave way, and sink into an abyss, never to be found.
And then a current pushed me upwards, my head breaking the surface, and I desperately gasped for air before the tide pulled me under again.
If I hit a wall at this speed, I would surely break to pieces. But the river had a mind of its own, uncaring of my thrashing terror, dragging me downstream into the endless night.
The water tore at me, ripping at my clothes, my belt, my hair. Bubbles spewed from my mouth against my will, my last precious gasp of air vanishing unseen.
And then I felt myself yanked sideways, snatched by a swirling current and flushed downwards in a tangle. At times my face broke the surface, and I sucked in air as I could.
My body went limp. The darkness was so complete I would never know if I was fainting or not, if I was drowning. Tossed and torn, freezing and starving for breath, I was reduced to a bundle of nerve endings and terror. I probably wouldn’t even be aware of drowning when it happened.
But the current was no longer tearing at me, threatening to rip me to pieces. It was an insistent tug, flowing ever downwards, but I reached out to paddle, trying to flow with the current instead of fighting against it.
So far downwards…I might survive drowning long enough to perish of cold in the depths of Liuridar.
But I was alive. Still breathing, even as my limbs prickled painfully with the cold, a heavy, sleepy numbness coming over me that boded terrible things to come.
My fingertips seared with pain as I stroked with the water, reaching out blindly to feel for solid walls. The current had become a lazy drift, and as I paddled, I slipped under once or twice, coming back up with a sputter and terror clenching in my chest.
And then my sodden boots touched something. Something solid, and I bit back the shivering scream that started from deep in my gut, thinking of the Iselaine Blind and the things that might live beneath this abyssal river.
But nothing grabbed me, and the current allowed me to splash forward, my hand slapping into what felt like a wall. I spilled onto a shallow bank, slick and oily with unseen algae or worse things, and I tried not to think about it as I dragged myself from the now-lazy trickle of water.
I felt along the wet, ridged wall, shivering so violently my jaws ached from clenching my teeth, and found an opening.
I collapsed in it, slapped at my face and realized my spectacles had been torn away, then blinked at the burbling stream—realizing I could somewhat see it.
Up close it was all a smeared blur, but far, far out in the distance… I saw a lake.
A still lake, the softly rippling water reflecting eerie blue ghost-lights on the far shore.
The fulmen of Liuridar. I should be grateful that the vicious, tearing river had spit me into this gentle body of water with light to see by, but I was terrified to move, lest something see me in return…
and terrified to stay still, or the cold would dig into my bones and send me into a sleep I’d never wake from.
I squinted at the distant lights, unable to tell what they were emanating from, but it was just bright enough for me to see that the gentler river poured into this lake from a dark crevasse, and the walls were honeycombed with tunnels.
The one I was curled in was the closest to the shore, but they extended high overhead, big blurry holes fading in the darkness like a bee’s hive.
After another minute, when nothing discernible moved in those smeared shades, and I heard nothing but the burble of the river and my own pounding heart, I decided on a course.
If I stayed still, I would die. Biting back a groan of pain, I unshouldered my pack, moving just far enough into the tunnel that I wouldn’t fear anything falling into the river. I moved mostly by touch, everything before me one great blur.
The pistol at my hip was soaked, the gunpowder useless. I laid it aside. There was no point in changing my clothes; most everything in my pack would be sodden. But I wrung out my hair and pushed my sleeves up so they wouldn’t drip further onto what I needed most.
I unbuckled the pack, cursing silently at the pain biting into my frozen fingers, and carefully lifted out the package wrapped in bespelled oilcloth.
Please, please, please…
I carefully unwrapped the package, revealing my extra pistol, and the paper cartridges filled with gunpowder and shot. They were dry as a bone. The sigils Bram had painted on them had outlasted the rage of the river.
Oh thank you, Lady of Light. I mouthed the words, the tears pouring down my cheeks shockingly warm on my frozen face. Thank you, Bram.
With a pistol, I had a sliver of a chance to find my people. But the other object I needed…I reached into my breast pocket, bringing out the Pathfinder beetle.
It had been soaked thoroughly, of course.
I thumbed the clasp, opening the malachite body, and peered in at the dirt, but without my spectacles, I could see nothing but a vague smear where my hands cupped the beetle.
My fingers were too cold and pruned to feel the dirt with any accuracy; I had no idea if it was wet or dry.
I closed my eyes for a moment, cursing myself. There were sanguimancers who could mold the flesh of the human body. Why hadn’t I spent my useless dowry on a bloodwitch who could fix my eyes?
Because you are a stubborn ass who refuses to change for anyone else, I told myself, clicking the beetle’s carapace shut again.
And when Renaud suggested you heal your eyes so you wouldn’t look quite so much like a beetle yourself, you flounced off in a huff.
And here is where your stubbornness got you.
Well. I hadn’t exactly anticipated going Below, or the bridge crumbling underfoot, or my spectacles being lost to an underground river. Most people would live their whole lives without such unfortunate occurrences happening to them.
I gazed at the blur of the Pathfinder beetle, then set it on the ground, loaded black powder and shot into the dry pistol, and tucked away everything else, laying the resealed package on top.
Then I shouldered the pack and picked up the beetle again, feeling, rather than seeing, the mechanism on its belly.
I wound it, using my thumbnail to crank the gear. I kept winding until my thumb began to hurt, a blister forming under my nail, and the gear itself began to click in protest.
And then I set it on the ground, taking up my pistol and wavering to my feet.
The gears ticked, slow at first, then faster. The beetle’s brass antennae flicked out, and its thin malachite shell brightened with a deep viridian glow.
I held my breath, hope blossoming painfully in my chest. The beetle took a tentative step forward, then another…
And then it staggered to the side. It crept several feet further into the tunnel, suddenly skittered forward, and just as quickly zipped around and flashed past my feet. It vanished into the river, its green glow dying out.
I swallowed a sob. If I started crying now, I’d never stop.
My Pathfinder beetle was too wet; it was confusing the location of the dirt in its shell with the river it’d been submerged in. But it was only one small trick in my arsenal, and if anyone—or anything—found me before I rejoined the crew, at least I’d put a lead ball through its face before I died.
It was a small comfort, but enough to get me walking. Nothing could get me back into that icy water, but I’d feel my way along the tunnel slowly, and hopefully meet with the crew if I kept moving upwards. I’d even take Alvar’s team; anyone human, really.
I wished Talos were with me to light the path.
No…I wished Wroth were with me. I’d still be afraid, even with my golem at my back, but if Wroth were here, I would feel…truly safe.
Perhaps he was looking for me. I took several steps into the darkness, my left hand on the wall, my right clutching the cocked pistol.
They probably thought I was dead. When I’d been on the bridge, looking down, I would’ve thought that the rushing river would kill anyone who fell into it.
I wondered if he would mourn me at all.
When nothing jumped out, I moved with a little more confidence, keeping one hand out at the level of my head to feel my way, scuffing my feet along so I wouldn’t trip or drop into a hole without warning.
The tunnel sloped upwards ever so slightly, and that was another small comfort, because all I could think of, trapped in this stygian blackness with my sight gone, was the maps Wroth had shown me.
It seemed like they floated before my eyes, the vivid colors squiggling through the darkness. The entrance to Liuridar had been marked as descending into the red map, where Wroth had claimed many could die if we had to enter.
What if the river had flowed below that?
I stopped dead in my tracks, wracked by a painful full-body shiver. What if this place wasn’t even on the maps?
We do not go into the violet…there is nothing marked on that map whatsoever…for if anyone should breach it, they would find nothing but despair within…
“Oh, gods,” I whispered hoarsely. “Light save me.”
Wroth was not coming. No one was coming. I was alone, in unmapped territory, and I had nothing but myself, my sword, and possibly one shot standing between me and a terrible death.
If anything lived here, I doubted it would stay still long enough for me to reload. My hand quaked, palms clammy with sweat, and I forced myself to take one deep breath, then another.