Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (26 page)

The Master Raén gently laid the skull and the other bone back into the hole he had dug, and smoothed the ground over again. They resumed their search for an entrance.

Caleb pointed up the slope. “That large rock has marks on it—writing, I think.”

Partway up the hill stood a narrow boulder surrounded by tall grass and shrub, flat on one side like a neglected tombstone. They began climbing at once. By the time they reached the stone they could see letters or symbols set in neat rows, but so weathered as to be indecipherable. Rennor, always last, halted a few steps away, his gaze riveted. Soren, the closest, gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword. There was little doubt of what they had found at last.

Warren traced his finger over the faded letters; Caleb shivered and pulled him away. The reddening sun shone on their backs, tall grasses and verdant pines swayed in the wind, yet they seemed weak, insubstantial compared to the threat below. One glance at the Master Raén told Caleb he was not the only one to sense this. This was no Gur’alyreiv. It was something much older, dormant perhaps, yet ready to spring to life if disturbed by some blundering fool.

Soren broke from his trance. “Stay put while I look around,” he said, and started poking at the grass nearby with the toe of his boot.

As soon as he reached the uphill side of the stone he flung up his arms and fell from sight, crying out. Caleb and Rennor stared at each other for an instant, then sprang forward, Warren scrambling after.

They halted on either side of the stone. A wide, ragged hole gaped below. Sod hung over the edges; dirt and debris trickled down into inky darkness.

Caleb bent down to listen. “Soren! Are you all right?” His voice fell dead, swallowed up.

There was no answer, no sound other than an occasional faint scrape, and the wind whispering around the stone. Then Caleb remembered his flashlight. After strewing the contents of his pack onto the ground, he brought it out and pointed its beam down the hole.

The dirty head and face of the Master Raén of Ada appeared. He struggled and fought his way back to daylight. “Put your cursed Earth magic away. You’re blinding me!”

Caleb angled the beam to one side. “In the name of Hendra, why didn’t you answer me?”

“Because I’m not very good at speaking with a mouth full of dirt.”

“Oh. Hold on, I’ll get some rope.”

“We don’t have any left, remember?” came the muffled voice. “In any case, it’s obvious we have to climb down here.”

“This is it?”

A dim stare shot out of the hole. “What great knowledge you wield. Yes, this is
it
. So, instead of my having to climb out of this filthy hole twice, you sluggards get everything together and follow. Below the passage widens and turns to stone.”

“Then you’re going to need my
cursed Earth magic
.”

Soren ignored the jibe, and ordered them to gather a bundle of short branches for torches. Caleb saw the sense in this; there was no telling how long this was going to take, and the flashlight wasn’t inexhaustible. As Rennor sorted out what few supplies they needed, Caleb used his hatchet to trim several green branches from the nearby trees. Warren collected pine bark and other kindling to augment their supply of pitch. Meanwhile Soren tried to pack the soil against the walls to keep it from falling away when they passed through.

Warren was reluctant to enter, but after Caleb went first and offered a few encouraging words, he slid down awkwardly into his father’s arms. Rennor followed, bringing only one small pack. They left the rest of their supplies concealed in the branches of a nearby tree.

The tunnel was moist and rank, and Caleb shook himself from visions of worms squeezing out of the soil near his face. Apparently the entrance had been open once, but centuries of wind and weather had covered it up. The resulting cap had given way under Soren’s weight. As he had promised, the tunnel widened and plunged into bedrock, but at a precipitous angle. Caleb’s main difficulty was pointing the flashlight in the right direction, for he had to stop now and then to prevent Warren from falling—or worse yet, from slamming into him and plunging them all headlong into the pit below. Rennor, as usual, struggled to keep up, his labored breathing and the scuff of his movements the only evidence of his presence behind in the darkness.

Though they had yet to descend thirty feet, the small patch of darkening sky had already disappeared around the first twist in the passage. Now even Caleb was forced to stop and rest. Soren waited impatiently, then widened his eyes as Caleb handed down the flashlight.

“I’m having enough trouble as it is,” Caleb protested before Soren could speak. “And if you don’t take the light, fool, your next step might be a long one.”

Soren hesitated, then with a grunt whisked the flashlight out of his hand. Yet before he turned to lead the way again he directed the beam up past the others at Rennor’s sweat-soaked face. The man was giving everything he had to keep up, and to avoid a fatal slip on the nearly vertical walls of the passage. Soren chuckled quietly as he resumed the descent.

Down into Graxmoar they burrowed, every step an exercise in caution. Eventually the flashlight revealed a smooth floor where the tunnel leveled off at once. Soren leaped the last few ledges, Caleb following soon after; Warren jumped half as far, landing lightly on his feet; Rennor struggled to the last ledge in the rocky wall and sank to the floor in exhaustion.

The other end of a short passage ended at a small, dust-covered door. Soren hesitated, his fingers tight around the flashlight as the beam played over the rotting planks. Warren edged closer to his father.

Caleb squatted beside Rennor. “I need you to stay with Warren while Soren and I go inside.”

The man leaned back against the damp wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Here? Why? And why now?”

“I know, I should have left him by the stone with you. But I need to find out what lies beyond that door before I expose my son to it.”

Rennor’s gaze strayed to Warren. “There’s nothing to fear. What we sense is only memories of evils done with the Second Lor’yentré ages ago.”

“Or a prescience of evils yet to come,” muttered Soren, glancing at the boy as well. “Your faith in our history and lore changes to suit your arguments. I’ve tolerated your company this far only because it hasn’t posed any real threat to our mission. But I refuse to allow anyone who hasn’t taken the Oath to step beyond that door.”

Caleb, fuming over Soren’s implied accusation about his son, surged to his feet. “What about me?” he asked. “I thought I was
unworthy to be a Raén.
Or have you forgotten what you said to me the other night?”

The Master Raén glared at him as Caleb pointed at the door. “I’m going in there, Soren. I need to find out whether I’m chasing a dream, or exchanging it for something far worse.” He gripped the hilt of his Fetra. “But I’m through putting up with your innuendos—especially your insinuating little glances at my boy. Either accept me as a full Raén, or finish what you started!”

For a moment Caleb thought he was going to call his bluff. Then Soren’s eyes lost their fire, and he nodded.

Caleb looked down at Rennor. “What about you?”

“What choice do I have? At least show me the courtesy of telling me when you find something.”

“Done,” said Caleb.

Warren shook his head emphatically when his father explained this arrangement. Rennor could be charming when necessary, however, and before long the boy sat nervously at his side.

Caleb grasped one of the short branches he had carried down from the surface, while Soren brought out an earthen jar of pitch Rennor had bought in Enilií. Caleb soaked a small rag and wrapped it around one end, then after some difficulty lighting it gave the torch to Rennor, leaving extra pitch and a few spare torches. At such close quarters the fresh flames almost blinded them, and they were soon coughing from the acrid smoke gathering along the low ceiling. But the shaft behind provided an adequate vent, keeping the air clear near the ground where Rennor and the boy remained seated.

Soren crept down the short passage, Caleb following. The door rose before them, its pitted surface and splitting joints covered in dust and old cobwebs. Soren gripped the rusted handle, but it tore loose at the slightest tug. He stuck his fingers between door and jamb, but no matter how he tried it wouldn’t budge.

With help from Caleb it finally opened, though unexpectedly. A brittle crack, and an entire section of the door broke free, throwing splinters in all directions. Gray dust from inside rose up in a cloud. Caleb managed to stay clear, but Soren got it right in the face, and he blinked the dust out of his eyes, coughing hoarsely.

Once he recovered he pointed the flashlight into the hole. Only a short expanse of floor appeared, the rest vanishing into a stygian void. There was nothing for it. After a glance back at the others they both squeezed through, the Master Raén carefully leading the way.

20

Ancient Warning

We should be careful not so much what we wish for,

but rather what we don’t.

- from
Etre Obald’aseli

AT FIRST
they saw nothing but a heavy layer of dust. Yet the whispering echo of their footsteps traveled all about them, and when Soren swung the beam of the flashlight, Caleb followed its flight in amazement.

They stood in a tall, roughly circular cave a few hundred feet in diameter. Giant stalactites hung from a dizzying nest of formations high above, some reaching the floor in narrow columns. Twisted masses of rock like petrified entrails formed the walls. But there was no sheen of moisture or any sign of life to be found—a dust-strewn dungeon that even nature itself had long forgotten.

Caleb gaped at the spectacle, turning slowly. Then a shout brought his heart to his mouth.

“
Ykéa!
”

The traditional warning cry bounded from wall to wall. “Blast you, Soren!”

“Look,” he said, pointing toward the center of the cave.

A narrow monolith stood alone in a wide space clear of stalagmites. Though a blanket of gray covered its top, its polished ebony flanks glistened with the light.

Scattered all about it lay several bizarre forms, a dozen at least, their features blurred by the dust. Caleb stepped forward for a closer inspection. They were corpses, lying like victims left to rot on an ancient battlefield. Tarnished swords were stuck between their ribs, their fleshless hands grasping the curved blades as if still trying to wrench them from hearts long withered and consumed. The ornate hilts, decayed as they were, were all too familiar.

Caleb approached the stone with the Master Raén, his fear and curiosity as one. Soren scanned the littered floor, his face pale and drawn. After threading a careful path through the bones they reached the obelisk, the glare of the flashlight reflecting off its surface.

The top was fashioned into a sculpture of some kind. Soren brushed away the dust, revealing a pair of black hands, heels touching, palms upward as if in supplication. Words were etched in the face of the stone below; dust filled the tiny crevices, offering easy contrast.

“Urmanayan?”

“Yes, but it’s in an ancient dialect,” answered Soren. “I think I can translate it well enough, though.” In a slow, halting voice he read:

IN THE FIRST YEAR

OF THE MOST HIGH AND NOBLE
REIGN OF GRONDOLOS,
HERADNORA
WAS VANQUISHED BY
THE KING’S COURAGE
AND HIS WISDOM.

HERE HER EVIL SPIRIT LIES,
FAR FROM LIVING FOLK,
AND LET NO ONE HENCEFORTH
SET FOOT UPON THIS GROUND,
LEST IN SO DOING
THEY SUMMON HER MALEVOLENCE
FROM THE VERY DUST OF HER TOMB.

“This tells us nothing,” Soren said, disappointment in his voice. “There’s no reference to the Broken Lor’yentré at all, or where it might be found. If these stone hands once held it, it was a long time ago.”

“Or it was never here in the first place.”

Soren pointed at the nearest corpse. “What about them? What secret did
they
discover?” He swept his gaze over the dust-covered bones and shook his head. “Raéni do not kill one another. The Second Lor’yentré is not some trinket to be fought over like children!”

Caleb, no surer than his companion of what to do next, finally shrugged and brought out one of the torches. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way. But it’s going to take a while.”

“We can’t go snooping around like that, Caleb Stenger. You heard the translation! Orand only knows what we’ll find.”

“The Broken Lor’yentré, that’s what! I can’t believe you’ve come all this way preaching the Oath only to back out at the last minute. Besides, anything dangerous would have happened by now.”

The old man glanced at the shattered door, perhaps remembering their confrontation in the tunnel. In any event he eventually muttered a curse and snatched the torch from Caleb’s hand, trading the flashlight.

Lighting the stubborn thing in the stale air proved to be a chore. But at last it was done, and they began a methodical search, splitting up, starting from the obelisk outward in ever-widening arcs. They paid close attention to the areas near the corpses. Minutes passed into hours, forcing Soren to stop several times to refuel his torch or to light a new one. Caleb reentered the tunnel occasionally to reassure Warren, and to update the increasingly fretful Rennor on their progress.

They reached the walls of the cavern. Soren and Caleb faced each other across the distance, the feeble flames of the torch casting spectral shadows among the dozens of stalagmites between.

Caleb stretched his sore back. “Are there instructions on the other side?”

“I already checked,” Soren answered. Nonetheless he returned to the monolith and scanned it on all sides again in case he had missed something. He paused a long while, his fingers resting against the stone; then he snatched them away.

“What’s wrong?” asked Caleb as he approached.