Ust hadn’t allowed it, impatient to leave.
She glanced at Ōbhin sitting beside her. He’d killed Ni’mod in the fight. The scar on his left cheek looked paler than usual. He’d shed his past of being a bandit and the crimes he’d committed while lost in dark fog, but here was a reminder. How would he react?
She nudged her shoulder into his. He glanced at her and she smiled, warm and reassuring. His gloved hand tightened on hers. He gave a slow nod and a long exhale. She saw, or so she hoped, acceptance in his eyes.
“The hole is still uncovered,” said Dualayn. “Good, good. And I don’t think any of the villagers we hired have come back to disturb it.”
“They were frightened enough being here,” Avena said. Dualayn had dismissed them once they’d found the Recorder. If Ust’s bandits had attacked hours earlier, would there be more innocents dead?
Probably, she thought, not sad at all Ust had died.
Ōbhin said, glancing at the sky, “Let’s set up camp and ready the ropes. At first light, we’ll descend.”
*
“I have maps,” Dualayn said as they sat around the campfire after their supper. The tents were set up; Avena had her own while Ōbhin was sharing one with Dualayn. Bran, Dajouth, and Fingers had brought lean-tos for themselves. The skies were clear. Ōbhin doubted there’d be rain anyways.
“What I have pieced together of the layout of Koilon before this present cataclysm. I do not know how much use they will be, but . . .” Dualayn pulled out of a satchel two rolls of parchment. He handed one to Avena and the other to Ōbhin. “I did not prepare more. But this way you two can see I am not holding back.”
“Very considerate,” she murmured and unrolled hers, her brow drawing down.
Ōbhin opened his own. Though Lothonian used a similar alphabet to Qothian, a few letters were different and there was one they didn’t have in his own language; it was still difficult for him to read. They used the letters to represent different sounds from Qothian, their words looking strange compared to how they sounded. But he deciphered most of it. A building labeled “Grand Library” was circled. A second, “Hall of Communications” lay to the east and south. There was a sketch of street layouts, other buildings that were labeled with strange names like “Flame Manufactory,” “Wave Resonance Beacon,” “Hall of Illumination,” “Crystal Sheriff Hall,” “Hall of Assemblage,” “Hall of Markets,” and “Offal Reclamation.” He could puzzle out some; Hall of Assemblage sounded like some sort of government building, but he didn’t know how you could manufacture flame. The Flame Manufactory lay to the north of the Grand Library by a point marked, “Ruby Guidestone.” The Wave Resonance Beacon was south of there, a medium-sized building. Offal Reclamation rested on the edge of the town.
“I have marked what street names I could decipher that appear to be by the buildings,” Dualayn continued. “I hope there will be signage once we’re underground to help us out. If you look carefully, I wrote the names in Old Tonal and with the very characters they used.”
Ōbhin noted the finer script beneath.
“I cannot wait to find the Hall of Communication,” Dualayn said. “Imagine being able to speak across the world. To converse with my friend in Democh without having to wait half a year for his response to reach me. It’ll revolutionize things. Knowledge will be at everyone’s fingertips.”
Ōbhin studied the Hall of Communication. It was a large building, dominating what looked like a square. It was near the Hall of Assemblage, the Hall of Illumination, and the Crystal Sheriff Hall. Ten or so blocks of travel, if the map could be trusted. It wouldn’t take long above ground, but below it could be days of exploring.
“We need to be wary of loose stones and weak ceilings,” Ōbhin said, looking up from the map. His gaze turned to the darkness. To the excavated hole. Memories of his time trapped beneath Gunya hovered on the edge of his awareness. The deep black, the thick dust, the earth shaking from aftershocks. “We need to be careful not to bury ourselves in there.”
“Yes, yes, and mark our path,” Dualayn said. “I have spent some time ripping up old shirts into strips of cloth. We should leave them in suitable places to help guide us. One knot means we went that way. Two knots to indicate that it leads to a dead end. I think that should help us keep from getting lost and covering ground we’ve already searched.”
Avena gave a slow nod. She drew up her knees to her chest and stared into the fire.
The weight seemed to press down on all of them. Tomorrow, they would venture into the black earth. Even Bran’s enthusiasm seemed muted. He picked at the lace of his boot. Ōbhin’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths. They were venturing underground with two people he couldn’t trust.
And he didn’t know who one of them was.
It wasn’t long before they began peeling off to find their bedrolls, Avena first, Bran shortly after. Dualayn crawled to the tent and soon his snores echoed. Fingers drifted off then Dajouth threw his flower into the fire and crawled into his lean-to.
Alone, Ōbhin stared into the dying flames as he leaned against a stump. He found himself sinking into sleep. Into dreams. They were blurred, a mess, a replay of what had happened in the mines over two years ago. He plunged the knife into Taim’s chest over and over and over again. The shock in the plump prince’s face never failed to add new cracks to Ōbhin’s soul, letting the filth of
