‘Under us,’ said Medlo, suddenly. ‘They are under us, going east.’
The sound died gradually but they continued to watch until the sun was halfway down the sky. Then, marking where the procession had disappeared, they went back down into the city.
The way was not hard to find, a staircase leading downward into darkness at the end of a twisting alley. The stairs had been smoothed almost into a ramp by the accretion of blown debris over centuries, and the way smelled of damp with a disquieting overlay of some other musty smell. Hoofmarks showed plainly, cleft hooves, very far apart from front to rear. Whatever the beasts were, they were long-bodied and small-boned and had disappeared into an impenetrable darkness. The darkness demanded torches.
Terascouros told them where to seek squirrel-cached oil nuts, where to find reeds on which to string them. It was evening before they followed the tracks into the earth by the light of flickering, smoky brands which threatened to go out in every draft.
They followed the hoofprints down long, dusty, straight corridors and into twisting ways, through vaulted hallways peopled with echoes, past cavernous places once bridged by floors which had collapsed into chasms below. At length, a bellowing roar of wind came toward them from some unknown depth and they entered a stone-floored cavern into which a dozen ways opened. There was no dust upon the cavern floor, polished bright by centuries of wind-scouring particles. They stopped, confused, searching black tunnel mouths for any sign that someone had passed there. All the ways led into indistinguishable blackness.
Into this confusion, Jaer seemed to hear or feel or sense some orderly tugging, as though a voice called him or a summoning hand gripped his own. ‘Come this way.’ It pulled him toward one of the tunnels. ‘This way, come.’ The way was long and curving, a trackless arc without echo, muted in velvet dark. Without warning, torchlight fell upon a door closing the way before them. Moreover, it was neither ancient nor rotted but shone in the light with a sheen of new metal worked into letters and words in an unknown language.
Or was it? He tingled with recognition as though he knew or might once have known. Terascouros pushed past him with a smothered exclamation.
‘Tiene! See, writing of the Tiene! Oh, Powers, can I remember what I learned too long ago? Medlo, do you have any knowledge of …? No, of course not, stupid of me.’
‘Not stupid,’ Medlo corrected her. ‘The writing is like that found in many places in Methyl-Drossy, the language of monuments of the Drossynian kings. There is a museum in Howbin, one an aunt of mine was benefactress of, which has much writing of this kind. I even have something with-’
‘So much information, to so little use,’ remarked Jaer. ‘What are you both talking about?’
Terascouros was peering at the letters, following them with a fingertip and muttering to herself.’ “Otie ah, ninie dra, dosh tabon.” It is like learning the alphabet all over again. See, here, in what you would call Drossynian, can you read that, Prince? Look, under my finger. No, ninny, here. Does that not read, “Lords of earth and all Powers …” Does it not?’
Medlo knelt beside her, scrubbed at the door with his sleeve as though to brighten letters dim from lack of light. ‘ “Lords of earth and all Powers, know that she who lies here guards thee. Forbear to waken her who waking frees the darkness.” ’ He nibbled a thumbnail. ‘Like a children’s story.’
Terascouros repeated the words: ‘A children’s story.’ She was busy at the door, pressing at the leaves and flowers which were cast into the metal, her fingers slipping into curves to press here and there, again, again. There was a quiet ‘tlach,’ and the door swung away from them.
‘Children’s stories.’ Terascouros beamed. ‘Exactly. That was the tale of the Princess Moonlight, who slept in the cavern behind golden doors. In the story, the doors unlocked in precisely that way. What fun!’
Jaer hauled her back, cursing quietly under his breath. ‘For love of us, Teras, be careful. This is not a children’s story. It is not Princess Moonlight but Gahlians, monsters, pain and hate. Be careful. Think before you go.’
‘You think!’ she said sharply. ‘May I go?’
His hands fell away. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I led us here, didn’t I?’
‘You will see,’ she said. ‘It may be a story, one I learned as a child and had forgotten, but there is no harm in it.’ She led them into dusty darkness beyond, the horses following, letting the door brush shut behind them.
The darkness gave way to opalescent grey, to pearly light, to a nacreous haze like early dawn. Before them a dais rose between cabinets in which lights fluttered and blinked, and on the dais an oval of haze seemed to float without weight. Within it a figure lay as though asleep, or carved from ivory, or dead and preserved in the appearance of life. Dark hair lay above level brows and dreaming eyes. Lips curved as though smiling. From above them a bell sounded, solemn and resonant, muted by distance but unmistakably the bell of the ruined tower of Tchent, both lulling and summoning. Jaer felt himself weeping, and the figure before them moved slightly, as though it perceived a disturbance, and then slept on.
Terascouros knelt to run her fingers along the letters carved into the stone steps before them. ‘Taniel,’ she whispered. ‘It says that this is Taniel, guardian of the west. Oh, Powers, what wonder to have lived to see Taniel!’
Medlo moved restlessly, looking over his shoulder. ‘Not possible, Teras. Here? Almost
