Sage bent close, inspecting the detailed carvings. “Formula or mixture of herbs they used to make it glow. Brilliant.”
“For this long?” He glanced up at the ceiling. “In the rain? How could it last without being washed away?”
Raven glanced at the ground. Erosion had eaten away at the soft earth between the coffins, leaving hollowed out gullies in its wake. “Because the rain never hit the coffins. Look.” She pointed to the floor. “It fell in the center of the coffins and went downhill, away from that coffin.”
They all gazed at the eroded line in the center of the tomb.
Landyn nodded. “And that’s why there is the moaning sound. After years of rain, the coffins shifted.”
“And when the wind blows,” Sage said, turning to the seventh coffin against the wall, “it enters whatever is behind that coffin, creating the moaning sound.” Sage stared at it. “That’s where we have to go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Afog that smelled of wood smokeand wet earth veiled the camp. Men’s voices, armor clinking, and horses neighing rose into the air. Tiny pinpoints of campfire light illuminated the small tents scattered across the terrain.
Marcus had been observing from a patch of brush, his eyes trained on the campground. He noticed Simon walking among the tents, his steps light and assured as he strolled toward a white canvas tent in the center.
Marcus glanced at the scene before him, taking in the rows of dusty tents filled with soldiers. Some rested with their arms crossed behind their heads, and others played cards and drank from an ale pouch. Too many to count. But Marcus didn’t have to count them.
He only had to know where Christian was.
After a moment, Simon emerged from the tent, his head hanging low. His shoulders drooped, and his pompous air had vanished. He stomped to another tent, disappearing inside.
Marcus’s gaze swung back to the tent Simon had emerged from. He was convinced Simon’s father was inside. Only a father could eradicate a son’s confidence so quickly. He waited and bided his time. He had a plan to infiltrate the camp and rescue Christian. But he needed one thing.
A soldier of his size, wearing a helmet.
And a lot of luck.
Christian sat inside the tent, his chin on his chest. He hoped that Willow had escaped. He was certain she had; otherwise, his father would use her capture against him. Yet a small part of him feared his father had killed her.
Christian gritted his teeth. No. He wouldn’t think that. She was smart and skilled enough to get away. He was certain she had. He knew he needed to free himself, but he couldn’t help but worry about her.
He looked around the tent he had been a prisoner in for the night. He was tied to a pole near the center, his hands bound tightly behind his back. He had been contorting and pulling his hands, straining his wrists in an effort to slip them out, the rough hemp fibers pressed painfully into his skin. His wrists were raw from the struggle against the binds, but he refused to give up. He felt the bonds loosening and fought harder to get free. He was almost there.
And when he was, he would need a weapon. His father had confiscated his sword and the dagger he had kept in his boot. He surveyed the tent for anything that could be used as a weapon and was dismayed to find only a wooden chair near the door, a blanket draped over it, and a single candle perched on a wooden table, with a three-legged stool before it. His father had ensured he would not be able to arm himself against his captors.
Christian tugged against the thick rope looped around his wrists again. A rug did not cover even the floor. It was just dirt and dried grass. I’ll have to remember to thank Father for the comfortable accommodation, he thought sarcastically. Leaving his sword was the one thing he would regret when he fled, but he would find another.
He yanked at his wrists, feeling the tightness of the rope biting into his skin.
He knew two guards were standing before the tent that he’d have to get past to escape.
He had to return to Willow. The fear and indecision written across her beautiful face still haunted him. But why was his father keeping him here? His father had the directions. What else did he need? What more did he want? His father hadn’t spoken to him at all, and he hadn’t seen Simon since he was captured.
He yanked his hands in desperation, his muscles straining, the rope burning his skin. With a final tug, the rope loosened, and he pulled his hands free. His wrists were red and raw, but elation and relief surged through him, and he untied his feet. He was about to stand when the tent flap suddenly opened.
Christian’s body tensed, and he quickly sat back, putting his hands behind him.
The man with the long, jagged scar on his cheek entered the tent.
Christian’s jaw muscles clenched, and his temples throbbed. A few more seconds and he would have been gone. “What do you want?”
“Your father said to check on you,” the man said, his gaze sweeping over Christian.
“He has guards in front of the tent. What does he need you to do that for?” As he approached, Christian nervously shifted his gaze from the man’s face to his own feet. The tail end of the rope was sticking out from beneath his calves. The man halted suddenly as if sensing something, and Christian held his breath, waiting for him to make the discovery.
The man crossed his arms. “Do you want food or—”
