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“So. We know we get out of here at some point.”
“Hopefully before we starve to death,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around my middle. Fates, it’s so cold down here.
Branwen walks up to me and reaches out, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Hoping and wondering aren’t how we get out of here. I know that much at least.” She glances at the chamber, then back at me. “Come on, let’s see what else you can do.”
I sigh, but follow. The chamber’s just as we left it last night. The air’s still crisp, and there’s a faint glow coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The paintings shimmer when we get close enough to see them, and they seem brighter today, as if they’re lit from within.
Heading straight for the shelves, Branwen grabs a few jars, then walks over and sets them on a table off to the side. Water. Soil. And something else. Something that glitters faintly with a silver sheen.
“What’s that?” I point to the last jar. She uncorks it, then sets it back down.
“No idea,” she shrugs.
“Oh, Fates. I’m going to blow us up, aren’t I?”
I start to back up, away from the table. Visions of the cavern exploding and burning us both to a crisp in some out-of-control fire pop into my mind, giving me yet another thing to worry about.
At least, Branwen would die. I don’t know what would happen to me. I know for a certainty that when Cage pushed me into that fire, my hand went through it and I somehow came out totally unharmed, so there’s a chance I might be fine.
Maybe.
Branwen wraps her hand around my arm before I can get too far and pulls me back, rolling her eyes.
“Come on, we’re going to start with dirt first.”
I eye the jar of silver liquid dubiously, but try to ignore it. Branwen takes one of the other jars and turns it over, shaking out a pile of wet soil onto the table. My eyes flick from Branwen to the soil, then back to Branwen.
“Try moving it,” she suggests, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Moving it?”
“With your mind. With your hands. Whatever. Wiggle your fingers. Glare at it menacingly. Imagine it’s Daxen’s face. Then punch it.”
The laugh that escapes is unexpected, but helps me relax. I reach out and press my fingertips into the soil.
It’s oddly warm. Smooth. Dark as coffee grounds. Closing my eyes, I clear my mind and focus only on the way it feels on my skin. I imagine it moving, stirring under my fingers. I picture it scattering across the table, like a plume of smoke.
I open my eyes, and—
Nothing.
I try again, pushing harder this time. I keep pushing, focusing all my mental energy on the dirt until my hands shake and the pounding in my temples feels like someone’s taking a bat to the inside of my skull.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I wipe it away with my shoulder.
When I open my eyes and nothing’s changed, I start to get frustrated.
Okay. Think, Idril. You were able to call on the wind and fire, so there has to be a way to call on the Earth.
Thinking back to Branwen’s earlier suggestions, I decide to try a different approach. I beg.
Please, please move. Just do something. Anything. Turn into a dirt snowman, or a dirt sandcastle. There are so many things you could be!
Grunting with effort, I press my fingers harder into the soil. Then I open my eyes.
Freaking. Nothing.
For the next ten minutes, I chant a continuous litany of “Please, please, please…”
