“It’s a puzzle?” the Majester asks, scratching feverishly on his parchment.
“Do keep up, Majester General,” Sir Coriand says. “It’s times of day, isn’t it? But the numbers must mean some kind of order, though why it starts at noon and hops all around, I wouldn’t know. Probably worth noting, though. Good thing you brought pen and ink. The real question is, will that fountain still work? If that still splashes water up after the whole monastery has been swiveled, that would be a real wonder, don’t you think, Sorken?”
“I prefer my wonders less opaque,” the other Engineer complains, “but yes, I’d consider it nigh on impossible.”
“Yes, rather,” Sir Coriand says, giggling like a schoolboy.
“Are you saying that the room I opened is down there now? Across from the clock?” Sir Owalan asks, eyes wide, pointing a trembling finger back toward the clock and the entrance that used to lead to the dormitories.
“I thought we were very clear,” Sir Sorken says. Which clarifies nothing for the Penitent. “If you’re confused you should consult the Majester’s map.”
“He means yes.” I am annoyed and it shows in my shortness. “But before you go running off, help me with our fallen.”
I still feel sick over Kodelai’s death. The most respected and well-known member of the Hand of Justice and he died at my challenge. I feel responsible. Just as I feel responsible for letting the Seer’s warning go unheeded. Two deaths, and they’re both ultimately at my feet.
Sir Owalan pauses. And so do the others, looking from me, to the fallen, and back again.
“They look well reposed as they lie,” the High Saint says tentatively. “And there’s really nowhere to put them.”
“Or any way to wash after touching them,” Sir Owalan agrees.
I feel my mouth fall open, but before I can reply, the High Saint says, “Let us pray.”
We’re swept up in the rote prayer for the fallen, spoken in concert over the bodies. It takes long minutes. Minutes where I’m bound in place, wondering if Hefertus and Victoriana are at the top of the steps. If they’ve found we can still leave this vault. If they’ve left without us. I look up, but from this angle, I can see nothing but the demon looking down on me. I dare not break tradition, or spit on these poor fallen souls, but I ache to move, to answer the questions plaguing me.
When, at last, the High Saint speaks the final words and we all intone, “Amen,” the slap of feet on marble has grown loud. We watch as the Vagabond and the Prince return, both out of breath, both sprinting back to us.
“The door,” Hefertus bursts out while they are still quite a way off. “The door is shut.”
The dog reaches us first, his expression so intent that my heart seizes for a moment, sure he is about to attack. Instead, he slows and circles both us and the dead, sniffing around the perimeter. If he disturbs the bodies then I will have no choice. He will join them in death. I hope the Vagabond realizes that and prevents it from needing to occur. I shoot a glance at her, hoping she reads my warning, but she mistakes it for a question.
“The door is still open but it doesn’t matter. It leads now to a solid rock wall.” Victoriana’s eyes are hard with what I take to be fear. “We’re trapped in here.”
Now my heart really seizes and I fight a sudden dizzy spell as I realize what she’s saying. No food with us. No water if the fountain has ceased. No tools to carve our way out, and even if there were tools … how would we do it? The door was never a proper door to begin with. It was always a miracle. We don’t even know how far beneath the earth this place is.
Sir Coriand looks over his shoulder, abandoning his study of the plaque for a moment. “Is the fountain still running?”
“The … my apologies … what?” Hefertus asks, looking at the other man like he is mad.
We are all staring at Sir Coriand together. Does he not understand? We are trapped in this underground grave like bugs under a bucket. There is no way out. We are dead men and women already and we know it.
“Yes,” the Vagabond says carefully. She’s a little white around the lips. “There’s still water pouring through it.”
“Well, that’s alright then,” Sir Coriand says.
“Indeed,” Sir Sorken echoes heartily.
“I don’t see how.” The Majester sounds wary. He’s speaking the way you speak to madmen.
“Oh, well if the engineers who built this place figured out how to keep the water running even after the whole room turned — and trust me, that’s a feat — then they planned for another way out. We’ll find it eventually.”
“Like we found the cup?” the Inquisitor asks snidely, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His jab fails to find its mark.
“We’ll probably find that, too.”
“And how will we find any of these things,” Sir Owalan scoffs, as if he is not the one who had locked us all into this mausoleum. “We can’t even get out of this place!”
“Well,” Sir Coriand says, looking slightly surprised, as if he’s been asked by a child how he knew a goat was a goat. “I’d advise checking in places we haven’t yet looked. Like that door you opened.”
