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But the torch met no resistance. It cleared the lowest point in the passage, where she had to shinny along the ground like a snake, and then suddenly the ceiling lofted away above her. She had come to the heart of the mound.
The flames whispered, echoing off the low vault of corbeled stone. Blank eyes stared at her from around the chamber. Hollow faces leered, mouths agape in white grins. Skeletons, dressed still in their finery, with wisps of hair capping their bony heads.
She screamed, slapped her hands over her face.
It was all a vision, a nightmare. Moaning, she tried to lower her hands, but she could not move, she could not think, she could not breathe.
They scuffed the dirt. They were moving, scrabbling toward her, reaching out with white fingers to scrape her flesh from her bones, to make her into one of them …
A touch brushed her shoulder.
She sobbed hysterically.
“Anna! Anna! They’re dead. They can’t hurt you!”
She groaned.
“Here, now, Anna. Just go back, then. I’ll look around. God Above! They’re wearing the silver tree, the mark of Villam! Could these be the companions of Lord Berthold, who were lost here?”
Shaking, still weeping, Anna lowered her hands.
Liath had crawled in after her, and now, standing but bent over so her head didn’t graze the ceiling, she held a torch out and examined, each in turn, the remains of seven dead people. Mostly the flesh had been eaten away, although dried bits adhered in places and they still had much of their hair. The cloth of their garments had not decomposed as quickly. The mark of the silver tree was easily visible on their finely woven tabards. A naked sword lay over the legs of one; rust discolored it.
“These two are dressed differently,” said Liath, pausing beside the last two, who lay at an awkward angle to the others, as if they did not belong. “Ai, God!” She held the torch closer, to get a better look.
These wore tabards stitched with the black dragon worn by the retainers sworn to serve Prince Sanglant. One of the tabards was patched in three places easily visible to the eye: a large patch at the dragon’s right claw, a smaller mend at the sign’s snout, and a third at the shoulder.
Anna had mended that rip. That was her stitching.
“This is very strange,” said Liath. “How came these seven dead men here? I am sure as I heard the tale that these barrows were explored after the disappearance of Lord Berthold, and no remains found. These poor fellows must have crawled in here seeking shelter in recent months, and been lost.”
“No,” whispered Anna.
Liath turned to look at her. By torchlight, she did not look so very fearsome. The darkness crowding in on all sides made her appear more vulnerable. She was not much older than Anna herself, not truly. She had also traveled a long way, and faced terrible dangers.
“Who do you think they are?”
Anna wiped her cheeks, but the tears kept flowing. She had mended that tabard. She knew her own stitches.
“Those five,” she said hoarsely, “they must be as you say. They must be Lord Berthold’s retainers, the five he left behind. I told you—” She drew breath, caught her courage, and went on. After all, she had always known the truth in her heart. Now she must accept it. “I told you we had to run. That the caverns were collapsing around us.”
“Indeed, you did,” said Liath with a slight frown. “Then who are these two others?”
She had not Prince Sanglant’s talent for names and faces; he would have known at once; he would not have had to ask. And after all this, Anna could not say their names aloud, although they resonated in her heart.
Thiemo and Matto.
Speechless, she covered her face with her hands.
4
AFTER she had crawled back out of the mound, and wiped off her clothing, Liath waited beside Sharp Edge as the tracker continued her search of the clearing. Poor Anna was huddled on the ground in a stupor, neither crying nor speaking. It was as if she had been struck on the head and gone mute.
“There is some vast labyrinth that connects the whole,” she said to Sharp Edge. “Some of it is truly underground, hewn out of the rock, but another part must be the aetherical tributaries, shifting in their channels. We placed Blessing and her companions in a mound far to the east—hoping to save her life, which we did! Lord Berthold and his companions crawled into the mounds above Hersford Monastery. And if Anna’s account is correct, and I believe it is, then a group comprised of two from Hersford and five from the east escaped from the cataclysm at Verna, in the Alfar Mountains. How can this be?”
“It must be possible to map these channels,” said Sharp Edge. “I’d like to do that!”
Liath shook her head, smiling slightly. Sharp Edge had a strong personality, a little hard to take, but her eagerness was like good wine: it made you want to drink more.
